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HAWORTH’S. 


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HE WAS SO NEAR THAT HER DRESS ALMOST TOUCHED HIM. 


( Page 70 .) 


Hawprth’s 


i '* v '* * ■ 


BY 

FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT 

u 

AUTHOR OF “THAT LASS O’ LOWRIE’S ” 


NEW YORK: 

CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 


LIBRARY of CCNGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

AUG 9 1997 

Copyright Entrv 




Copyright by 

FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT, 
1879, 1907. 

(All rights reset'ved.) 


CONTENTS 


nS 








CHAPTER I. 

Twenty Years 1 

CHAPTER IL 

Thirty Years 11 

CHAPTER III. 

“ Not Finished ”, 16 

CHAPTER IV. 

Janey Briarley 21 

CHAPTER V. 

The Beginning of a Friendship 25 

CHAPTER VI. 


Miss Ffrench 

CHAPTER VII. 
The “ Who’d Ha’ Thowt It?” 


30 


39 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Mr. Ffrench 45 

CHAPTER IX. 

“ Not for One Hour ”, 49 

CHAPTER X. 

Christian Murdoch 59 

CHAPTER XI. 

Miss Ffrench Returns 66 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

CHAPTER XH. 

Granny Dixon 

CHAPTER XHI. 

Mr. Ffrench visits the Works. 82 

CHAPTER XIV. 

Nearly an Accident 90 

CHAPTER XV. 

“ It would be a Good Thing ” 97 

CHAPTER XVI. 

4< A Poor Chap as is alius i’ Trouble ” 101 

CHAPTER XVII. 

A Flower. 107 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

“ Haworth & Co.” 115 

CHAPTER XIX. 

An Unexpected Guest 123 

CHAPTER XX. 

Miss Ffrench makes a Call 130 

CHAPTER XXI. 

In which Mrs. Briarley’s Position is Delicate 137 

CHAPTER XXII. 

Again 142 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

“ Ten Shillings’ Worth ” 152 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

At an End 160 

CHAPTER XXV. 

“ I Shall not turn Back ” 165 


CONTENTS. Vli 

PAGE 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

A Revolution 169 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

The Beginning 178 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

A Speech. 186 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

“Sararann” 192 

CHAPTER XXX. 

Mrs. Haworth and Granny Dixon 198 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

Haworth’s Defender. 205 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

Christian Murdoch 211 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

A Seed Sown 220 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

A Climax. 227 

CHAPTER XXXV. 

-“Iam not ready for it yet ” 241 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

Settling an Account. 245 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

A Summer Afternoon 254 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

“ God Bless You ! ” 261 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

“ It is done with ” 267 


viii CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

CHAPTER XL. 

‘Look Out !” 274 

CHAPTER XL1. 

“ It has all been a Lie ” 284 

CHAPTER XLII. 

“Another Man!” 290 

CHAPTER XLIII. 

“Even” 294 

CHAPTER XLIV. 

“ Why do you cry for Me ? ” 299 

CHAPTER XLY. 

“ It is Worse than I Thought ” 305 

CHAPTER XLVL 

Once Again 311 

CHAPTER XLVn. 

A Footstep 316 

CHAPTER XLVIII. 

Finished 322 

CHAPTER XLIX. 

“ If Aught’s for Me, Remember It ” 327 

CHAPTER L. 

An After-Dinner Speech 336 

CHAPTER LL 

“ Th’ On’y One as is na a Foo’ 1 ” 343 

CHAPTER LH. 

“ Haworth’s is done with ” 350 

CHAPTER Lin. 

“ A Bit o’ Good Black ” 363 

CHAPTER LIV. 

* * It will be to You ” 369 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 

.♦« 

He was so near that Her Dress almost touched Him. 

Frontispiece. 

Haworth’s First Appearance 1 

“Yo’re th’ very Moral on Him” 80 

“Sit Down,” She said, “and Talk to Me” 116 

“I Stand Here, my Lad,” He answered 182 

She turned her Face toward Him. “ Good-Night,” She 
answered 278 

“You’ve been Here all Night” 323 

It was Reddy who aimed the Blow 830 


































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■ 









































































































Haworth’s first appearance. 



“HAWORTH’S.” 


CHAPTER I. 

TWENTY YEARS. 

Twenty years ago! Yes, twenty years ago this very 
day, and there were men among them who remembered 
it. Only two, however, and these were old men whose 
day was passed and who would soon be compelled to give 
up work. Naturally upon this occasion these two were 
the center figures in the group of talkers who were dis- 
cussing the topic of the hour. 

“ Aye,” said old Tipton, “ I ’member it as well as if it 
wur yesterday, fur aw it’s twenty year’ sin’. Eh ! but it 
wur cowd ! Th’ cowdest neet i’ th’ winter, an’ th’ winter 
wur a bad un. Th’ snow wur two foot deep. Theer wur a 
big rush o’ work, an’ we’d had to keep th’ foires goin’ arter 
midneet. Theer wur a chap workin’ then by th’ name o’ 
Bob Latham, — he’s dead long sin’, — an’ he went to th’ foun- 
dry-door to look out. Yo’ know how some chaps is about 
seein’ how cowd it is, or how hot, or how heavy th’ rain’s 
cornin’ down. Well, he wur one o’ themsoart, an’ he muu 
go an’ tak’ a look out at th’ snow. 


2 


“HAWORTH'S. 


“ ‘ Coom in, tha foo’,’ sez 1 to him. c Whatten tha 
stickin’ tha thick yed out theer fur, as if it wur midsum- 
mer, i’stead o’ being cowd enow to freeze th’ tail off a 
brass jackass. Coom in wi’ tha.’ 

“ 6 Aye,’ he sez, a-chatterin’ his teeth, ‘ it is cowd sure-ly. 
It’s enow to stiffen a mon.’ 

“ ‘ I wish it ud stiffen thee,’ 1 sez, ‘ so as we mought set 
thee up as a monyment at th’ front o’ th’ ’Sylum.’ 

“ An’ then aw at onct I heard him gie a jump an’ a bit 
o’ a yell, like, under his breath. ‘ God-a-moighty ! ’ he 
sez. 

“ Summat i’ th’ way he said it soart o’ wakkened me. 

“ 6 What’s up ? ’ I sez. 

“ ‘ Coom here,’ sez he. ‘ Theer’s a dead lad here.’ 

“ An’ when I getten to him, sure enow 1 thowt he wur 
reet. D rawed up i’ a heap nigh th’ door theer wur a lad 
lyin’ on th’ snow, an’ th’ stiff look on him mowt ha’ gi’en 
ony mon a turn. 

“ Latham wur bendin’ ower him, wi’ his teeth chatterin’. 

<£ ‘ Blast thee ! ’ I sez , 6 why dost na tha lift him ? ’ 

u Betwixt us we did lift him, an’ carry him into th’ 
Works an’ laid him down nigh one o’ the furnaces, an’ th’ 
fellys coom crowdin’ round to look at him. He wur a lad 
about nine year’ owd, an’ strong built ; but he looked 
more than half clemmed, an’ arter we’st rubbed him a 
good bit an’ getten him warmed enow to coom round ’i a 
manner, th’ way he set up an’ stared round were summat 
queer. 

“ ‘ Mesters,’ he sez, hoarse an’ shaky, 4 ha’ ony on yo’ 
getten a bit o’ bread ? ’ 

“ Bob Latham’s missus had put him up summat to eat, 
an’ he browt it an’ gie it to him. Well, th’ little chap 
a’most snatched it, an’ crammed it into his mouth i’ great 


TWENTY YEARS. 


3 


mouthfuls. His lionds trembled so he could scarce howd 
th’ meat an’ bread, an’ in a bit us as wur standin’ lookin’ 
on seed him soart o’ choke, as if he wur goin’ to cry ; but 
he swallyed it down, and did na. 

“ ‘ I havn’t had nowt to eat i’ a long time,’ sez he. 

“ ‘ How long ? 5 sez I. 

%i Seemt like he thowt it ower a bit afore he answered, 
and then he sez : 

“ ‘ I think it mun ha’ been four days.’ 

“ ‘ Wheer are yo’ fro’ ? ’ one chap axed. 

“‘I coom a long way,’ he sez. ‘I’ve bin on th’ road 
three week’.’ An’ then he looks up sharp. ‘ I run away 
fro’ th’ Union,’ he sez. 

“ That wur th’ long an’ short on it — he had th’ pluck to 
run away fro’ th’ Union, an’ he’d had th’ pluck to stond 
out agen clemmin’ an’ freezin’ until flesh an’ blood ud 
howd out no longer, an’ he’d fell down at the foundry- 
door. 

“ ‘ I seed th’ loight o’ th’ furnaces,’ he sez , 1 an’ I tried 
to run ; but I went blind an’ fell down. I thowt,’ he sez, 
as cool as a cucumber, ‘ as I wur deein’.’ 

“ Well, we kep’ him aw neet an’ took him to th’ mester 
i’ th’ mornin’, an’ th’ mester gie him a place, an’ he stayed. 
An’ he’s bin i’ th’ foundry fro’ that day to this, an’ how 
he’s worked an’ getten on yo’ see for yoresens — fro’ beein’ 
at ivvery one’s beck an’ call to buyin’ out Flixton an’ set' 
tin’ up for hissen. It’s the ‘ Haworth Iron Works ’ fro’ 
to-day on, an’ he will na mak’ a bad mester, eyther.” 

“ Nay, he will na,” commented another of the old ones. 
“ He’s a pretty rough chap, but he’ll do — will Jem 
Haworth.” 

There was a slight confused movement in the group. 

“ Here he cooms,” exclaimed an outsider. 


4 


“HAWORTH'S. 


The man who entered the door-way — a strongly built 
fellow, whose handsome clothes sat rather ill on his some- 
what uncouth body — made his way through the crowd 
with small ceremony. He met the glances of the work- 
men with a rough nod, and went straight to the manage- 
rial desk. But he did not sit down ; he stood up, facing 
those who waited as if he meant to dispose of the business 
in hand as directly as possible. 

“ Well, chaps,” he said, “ here we are.” 

A slight murmur, as of assent, ran through the room. 

“ Aye, mester ,” they said ; “ here we are.” 

“ Well,” said he, “ you know why, I suppose. We’re 
taking a fresh start, and I’ve something to say to you. 
I’ve had my say here for some time ; but I’ve not had my 
way, and now the time’s come when I can have it. Hang 
me, but I’m going to have the biggest place in England, 
and the best place, too. 6 Haworth’s ’ sha’n’t be second to 
none. I’ve set my mind on that. I said I’d stand here 
some day,” — with a blow on the desk, — “ and here I am. 
I said I’d make my way, and I’ve done it. From to-day 
on, this here’s ‘ Haworth’s,’ and to show you I mean to 
start fair and square, if there’s a chap here that’s got a 
grievance, let that chap step out and speak his mind to 
Jem Haworth himself. Now’s his time.” And he sat 
down. 

There was another stir and murmur, this time rather of 
consultation ; then one of them stepped forward. 

“ Mester,” he said, “ I’m to speak fur ’em.” Haworth 
nodded. 

“What I’ve getten to say,” said the man, “is said easy. 
Them as thowt they’d getten grievances is willin’ to leave 
the settlin’ on ’em to Jem Haworth.” 

“ That’s straight enough,” said Haworth. “ Let ’em 


TWENTY YEARS. 


5 


stick to it and there’s not a chap among ’em sha’n’t have 
his chance. Go into Greyson’s room, lads, and drink 
luck to ‘ Haworth’s.’ Tipton and Harrison, you wait a 
bit.” 

Tipton and Harrison lingered with some degree of 
timidity. By the time the room had emptied itself, 
Haworth seemed to have fallen into a reverie. He leaned 
back in his chair, his hands in his pockets, and stared 
gloomily before him. The room had been silent five 
minutes before he aroused himself with a start. Then 
he leaned forward and beckoned to the two, who came 
and stood before him. 

“ You two were in the place when I came,” he said. 
“ You ” — to Tipton — “ were the fellow as lifted me from 
the snow.” 

“ Aye, mester,” was the answer, “ twenty year’ ago, to- 
neet.” 

“ The other fellow ” 

“ Dead ! Eh ! Long sin’. Ivvery chap as wur theer, 
dead an’ gone, but me an’ him,” with a jerk toward his 
comrade. 

Haworth put his hand in his vest-pocket and drew forth 
a crisp piece of paper, evidently placed there for a pur- 
pose. 

“Here,” he said with some awkwardness, “divide that 
between you.” 

“ Betwixt us two ! ” stammered the old man. “ It’s a 
ten-pun-note, mester ! ” 

“ Yes,” with something like shamefacedness. “ I used 
to say to myself when I was a youngster that every chap 
who was in the Works that night should have a five- 
pound note to-day. Get out, old lads, and get as drunk 
as you please. I’ve kept my word. But — ” his laugh 


0 


“ HA WORTH'S. 


breaking off in the middle — “ I wish there’d been more 
of you to keep it up together.” 

Then they were gone, chuckling in senile delight over 
their good luck, and he was left alone. He glanced round 
the room — a big, handsome one, well filled with massive 
office furniture, and yet wearing the usual empty, barren 
look. 

“ It’s taken twenty years,” he said, “ but I’ve done it. 
It’s done — and yet there isn’t as much of it as I used to 
think there would be.” 

He rose from his chair and went to the window to look 
out, rather impelled by restlessness than any motive. 
The prospect, at least, could not have attracted him. 
The place was closed in by tall and dingy houses, whose 
slate roofs shone with the rain which drizzled down 
through the smoky air. The ugly yard was wet and had 
a deserted look ; the only living object which caught his 
eye was the solitary figure of a man who stood waiting 
at the iron gates. 

At the sight of this man, he started backward with an 
exclamation. 

“ The devil take the chap ! ” he said. “ There he is 
again ! ” 

He took a turn across the room, but he came back again 
and looked out once more, as if he found some irresisti- 
ble fascination in the sight of the frail, shabbily clad 
figure. 

“Yes,” he said, “it’s him, sure enough. I never saw 
another fellow with the same, done-for look. I wonder 
what he wants.” 

He went to the door and opening it spoke to a man 
who chanced to be passing. 

“Floxham, come in here,” he said. Floxham was a 


TWENTY YEARS. 


7 


well-oiled and burly fellow, plainly fresh from the engine- 
room. He entered without ceremony, and followed his 
master to the window. Haworth pointed to the man at 
the gate. 

“There’s a chap,” he said, “ that I’ve been running up 
against, here and there, for the last two months. The 
fellow seems to spend his time wandering up and down 
the streets. I’m hanged if he don’t make me think of a 
ghost. He goes against the grain with me, somehow. 
Do you know who he is, and what’s up with him \ ” 

Floxham glanced toward the gate- way, and then nod- 
ded his head dryly. 

“ Aye,” he answered. “ He’s th’ inventin’ chap as has 
bin thirty year’ at work at some contrapshun, an’ hasn’t 
browt it to a yed yet. He lives i’ our street, an’ me an’ 
my missis hes been noticin’ him fur a good bit. He’ll 
noan finish th’ thing he’s at. He’s on his last legs now. 
He took th’ contrapshun to ’Merica thirty year’ ago, when 
he first getten th’ idea into his yed, an’ he browt it back 
a bit sin’ a’most i’ the same fix he took it. Me an’ my 
missis think he’s a bit soft i’ the yed.” 

Haworth pushed by him to get nearer the window. A 
slight moisture started out upon his forehead. 

“ Thirty year’ ! ” he exclaimed. “ By the Lord 
Harry!” 

There might have been something in his excitement 
which had its effect upon the man who stood outside. 
He seemed, as it were, to awaken slowly from a fit of 
lethargy. He glanced up at the window, and moved 
slowly forward. 

“ He’s made up his mind to come in,” said Floxham. 

“ What does he want ? ” said Haworth, with a sense of 
physical uneasiness. “ Confound the fellow ! ” trying to 


8 


U A WORTH'S. 


shake off the feeling with a laugh. “ What does he want 
with me — to-day ? ” 

“ I can go out an’ turn him back,” said Floxham. 

“ No,” answered Haworth. “ You can go back to your 
work. Fll hear what he has to say. I’ve naught else to 
do just now.” 

Floxham left him, and he went back to the big arm- 
chair behind the table. He sat down, and turned over 
some papers, not rid of his uneasiness even when the 
door opened, and his visitor came in. He was a tall, 
slender man who stooped and was narrow-chested. He 
was gray, hollow-eyed and haggard. He removed his 
shabby hat and stood before the table a second, in silence. 

“ Mr. Haworth ? ” he said, in a gentle, absent-minded 
voice. “ They told me this was Mr. Haworth’s room.” 

“ Yes,” he answered, “ I’m Haworth.” 

“ I want — ” a little hoarsely, and faltering — “ to get 
some work to do. My name is Murdoch. I’ve spent the 
last thirty years in America, but I’m a Lancashire man. 
I went to America on business — which has not been suc- 
cessful — yet. I — I have worked here before,” — with a 
glance around him, — “and I should like to work here 
again. I did not think it would be necessary, but — that 
doesn’t matter. Perhaps it will only be temporary. I 
must get work.” 

In the last sentence his voice faltered more than ever. 
He seemed suddenly to awaken and bring himself back 
to his first idea, as if he had not intended to wander 
from it. 

“ I — I must get work,” he repeated. 

The effect he produced upon the man he appealed to 
was peculiar. Jem Haworth almost resented his frail ap- 
pearance. He felt it an uncomfortable thing to confront 


TWENTY YEARS. 


9 


just at this hour of his triumph. He had experienced the 
same sensation, in a less degree, when he rose in the 
morning and looked out of his window upon murky sky 
and falling rain. He would almost have given a thousand 
pounds for clear, triumphant sunshine. 

And yet, in spite of this, he was not quite as brusque as 
usual when he made his answer. 

"I’ve heard of you,” he said. “ You’ve had ill 
luck.” 

Stephen Murdoch shifted his hat from hand to hand. 

“ I don’t know,” he replied, slowly. “ I’ve not called it 
that yet. The end has been slow, but I think it’s sure. 
It will come some ” 

Haworth made a rough gesture. 

“ By George ! ” he exclaimed. “ Haven’t you given 
the thing up yet ? ” 

Murdoch fell back a pace, and stared at him in a 
stunned way. 

“ Given it up ! ” he repeated. “ Yet ? ” 

“Look here!” said Haworth. “You’d better do it, if 
you haven’t. Take my advice, and have done with it. 
You’re not a young chap, and if a thing’s a failure after 

thirty years’ work ” He stopped, because he saw the 

man trembling nervously. “ Oh, 1 didn’t mean to take 
the pluck out of you,” he said bluntly, a moment later. 
“You must have had plenty of it to begin with, egad, or 
you’d never have stood it this long.” 

( “I don’t know that it was pluck,” — still quivering. 
“ I’ve lived on it so long that it would not give me up. I 
think that’s it.” 

Haworth dashed off a couple of lines on a slip of paper, 
and tossed it to him. 

“ Take that to Greyson,” he said, “ and you’ll get your 

1 * 


10 


“HAWORTH'S. 


work, and if you have anything to complain of, come to 
me.” 

Murdoch took the paper, and held it hesitatingly. 

“ I — perhaps I ought not to have asked for it to-day,” 
he said, nervously. “I’m not a business man, and I 
didn’t think of it. I came in because I saw you. I’m 
going to London to-morrow, and shall not be back for a 
week.” 

“ That’s all right,” said Haworth. “ Come then.” 

He was not sorry to see his visitor turn away, after 
uttering a few simple words of thanks. It would be a 
relief to see the door close after him. But when it had 
closed, to his discomfiture it opened again. The thin, 
poorly clad figure reappeared. 

“ I heard in the town,” said the man, his cheek flushing 
faintly, “of what has happened here to-day. Twenty 
years have brought you better luck than thirty have 
brought me.” 

“ Yes,” answered Haworth, “ my luck’s been good 
enough, as luck goes.” 

“ It seems almost a folly ” — falling into the meditative 
tone — “ for me to wish you good luck in the future.” And 
then, pulling himself together again as before : “it is a 
folly ; but I wish it, nevertheless. Good luck to you ! ” 

The door closed, and he was gone. 


CHAPTER II. 


THIRTY YEARS. 

A little later there stood at a window, in one of the 
cheapest of the respectable streets, a woman whom the 
neighbors had become used to seeing there. She was a 
small person, with a repressed and watchful look in her 
eyes, and she was noticeable, also, to the Lancashire 
mind, for a certain slightly foreign air, not easily de- 
scribed. It was in consequence of inquiries made con- 
cerning this foreign air, that the rumor had arisen that 
she was a “ ’Merican,” and it was possibly a result of this 
rumor that she was regarded by the inhabitants of the 
street with a curiosity not unmingled with awe. 

“ Aye,” said one honest matron. “ Hoo’s a ’Merican, 
fur my mester heerd it fro’ th’ landlord. Eh ! I would 
like to ax her summat about th’ Blacks an’ th’ Indians.” 

But it was not easy to attain the degree of familiarity 
warranting the broaching of subjects so delicate and 
truly “ ’Merican.” The stranger and her husband lived a 
simple and secluded life. It was said the woman had 
never been known to go out ; it seemed her place to stand 
or sit at the window and watch for the man when he left 
the house on one of his mysterious errands in company 
with the wooden case he carried by its iron handle. 

This morning she waited as usual, though the case had 
not gone out, — rather to the disappointment of those in- 


12 


HAWORTH' 8. 


terested, whose conjectures concerning its contents were 
varied and ingenious. When, at last, the tall, stooping 
figure turned the corner, she went to the door and stood 
in readiness to greet its crossing the threshold. 

Stephen Murdoch looked down at her with a kindly, 
absent smile. 

“ Thank you, Kitty,” he said. “ You are always here, 
my dear.” 

There was a narrow, hard, horse-hair sofa in the small 
room into which they passed, and he went to it and lay 
down upon it, panting a little in an exhausted way, a 
hectic red showing itself on his hollow cheeks. 

“ Everything is ready, Kitty ? ” he said at last. 

“ Yes, all ready.” 

He lay and looked at the fire, still breathing shortly. 

“ I never was as certain of it before,” he said. “ I 
have thought I was certain, but — I never felt as I do now. 
And yet — I don’t know what made me do it — I went into 
Haworth’s this morning and asked for — for work.” 

His wife dropped the needle she was holding. 

“ For work ! ” she said. 

“ Yes — yes,” a little hastily. “ I was there and saw 
Haworth at a window, and there have been delays so 
often that it struck me I might as well — not exactly de- 
pend on it ” He broke off and buried his face in 

his hands. “ What am I saying ? ” he cried. “ It sounds 
as if I did not believe in it.” 

His wife drew her chair nearer to him. She was used 
to the task of consoling him ; it had become a habit. 
She spoke in an even, unemotional voice. 

u When Hilary comes ” she began. 

“ It will be all over then,” he said, “ one way or the 
other. He will be here when I come back.” 


THIRTY YEARS. 


13 


“Yes.” 

“ I may have good news for him,” he said. “ I don’t 
see ” — faltering afresh — “ how it can be otherwise. Only 
I am so used to discouragement that — that I can’t see the 
thing fairly. It has been — a long time, Kitty.” 

“This man in London,” she said, “can tell you the 
actual truth about it ? ” 

“ He is the first mechanic and inventor in England,” he 
answered, his eye sparkling feverishly. “ He is a genius. 
If he says it is a success, it is one.” 

The woman rose, and going to the fire bent down to 
stir it. She lingered over it for a moment or so before 
she came back. 

“ When the lad comes,” he was saying, as if to himself, 
“we shall have news for him.” 

Thirty years before, he had reached America, a gentle, 
unpractical Lancashire man, with a frail physique and 
empty pockets. He had belonged in his own land to the 
better class of mechanics ; he had a knack of invention 
which somehow had never as yet brought forth any de- 
cided results. He had done one or two things which had 
gained him the reputation among his employers of being 
“ a clever fellow,” but they had always been things which 
had finally slipped into stronger or shrewder hands, and 
left his own empty. But at last there had come to him 
what seemed a new and wonderful thought. He had 
labored with it in secret, he had lain awake through long 
nights brooding over it in the darkness. 

And then some one had said to him : 

“ Why don’t you try America ? America’s the place 
for a thinking, inventing chap like you. It’s fellows like 
you who are appreciated in a new country. Capitalists 


14 


“ HA WORTH'S. 


are not so slow in America. Why don’t you carry your 
traps out there % ” 

It was more a suggestion of boisterous good-fellowship 
than anything else, but it awakened new fancies in 
Stephen Murdoch’s mind. He had always cherished 
vaguely grand visions of the Hew World, and they were 
easily excited. 

u I only wonder I never thought of it,” he said to him- 
self. 

He landed on the strange shore with high hopes in his 
breast, and a little unperfected model in his shabby 
trunk. 

This was thirty years ago, and to-day he was in Lan- 
cashire again, in his native town, with the same little 
model among his belongings. 

During the thirty years’ interval he had lived an un- 
settled, unsuccessful life. He had labored faithfully at 
his task, but he had not reached the end which had been 
his aim. Sometimes he had seemed very near it, but it 
had always evaded him. He had drifted here and there 
bearing his work with him, earning a scant livelihood by 
doing anything chance threw in his way. It had always 
been a scant livelihood, — though after the lapse of eight 
years, in one of his intervals of hopefulness, he had mar- 
ried. On the first night they spent in their new home he 
had taken his wife into a little bare room, set apart from 
the rest, and had shown her his model. 

“ I think a few weeks will finish it,” he said. 

The earliest recollections of their one child centered 
themselves round the small room and its contents. It 
was the one touch of romance and mystery in their nar- 
row, simple life. The few spare hours the struggle for 
daily bread left the man were spent there ; sometimes he 


THIRTY YEARS. 


15 


even stole hours from the night, and yet the end was al- 
ways one step further. His frail body grew frailer, his 
gentle temperament more excitable, he was feverishly 
confident and utterly despairing by turns. It was in one 
of his hours of elation that his mind turned again to his 
old home. He was sure at last that a few days’ work 
would complete all, and then only friends were needed. 

“ England is the place, after all,” he said. “ They are 
more steady there, even if they are not so sanguine, — and 
there are men in Lancashire I can rely upon. We’ll try 
Old England once again.” 

The little money hard labor and scant living had laid 
away for an hour of need, they brought with them. Their 
son had remained to dispose of their few possessions. 
Between this son and the father there existed a strong 
affection, and Stephen Murdoch had done his best by 
him. 

“ I should like the lad,” he used to say, “ to have a 
fairer chance than I had. I want him to have what I 
have lacked.” 

As he lay upon the horse-hair sofa he spoke of him to 
his wife. ' 

“ There are not many like him,” he said. “ He’ll make 

his way. I’ve sometimes thought that may-be ” 

But he did not finish the sentence ; the words died away 
on his lips, and he lay — perhaps thinking over them as he 
looked at the fire. 


CHAPTER III. 


“not finished.” 

The next morning he went upon his journey, and a few 
days later the son came. He was a tall young fellow, 
with a dark, strongly cut face, deep-set black eyes and an 
unconventional air. Those who had been wont to watch 
his father, watched him in his turn with quite as much 
interest. He seemed to apply himself to the task of ex- 
ploring the place at once. He went out a great deal and 
in all sorts of weather. He even presented himself at 
“ Haworth’s,” and making friends with Floxham got per- 
mission to go through the place and look at the machinery. 
His simple directness of speech at once baffled and soft- 
ened Floxham. 

“ My name’s Murdoch,” he said. “ I’m an American 
and I’m interested in mechanics. If it isn’t against your 
rules I should like to see your machinery.” 

Floxham pushed his cap off his forehead and looked 
him over. 

“ Well, I’m dom’d,” he remarked. 

It had struck him at first that this might be “ cheek.” 
And then he recognized that is was not. 

Murdoch looked slightly bewildered. 

“ If there is any objection ” he began. 

“ Well, there is na,” said Floxham. “ Coom on in.” 
And he cut the matter short by turning into the door. 


“NOT FINISHED. 


17 


“ Bid any ’o yo’ chaps see that felly as coom to look at 
th’ machinery ? ” he said afterward to his comrades. 
“ He’s fro’ ’Merica, an’ danged if he has na more head- 
fillin’ than yo’d think fur. He goes round wi’ his hands 
i’ his pockits lookin’ loike a foo’, an’ axin’ questions as ud 
stump an owd un. He’s th’ inventin’ chap’s lad. I 
dunnot go much wi’ inventions mysen, but th’ young 
chap’s noan sich a foo’ as he looks.” 

Between mother and son but little had been said on the 
subject which reigned supreme in the mind of each. It 
had never been their habit to speak freely on the matter. 
On the night of Hilary’s arrival, as they sat together, the 
woman said : 

“ He went away three days ago. He will be back at 
the end of the week. He hoped to have good news for 
you.” 

They said little beyond this, but both sat silent for 
some time afterward, and the conversation became desul- 
tory and lagged somewhat until they separated for the 
night. 

The week ended with fresh gusts of wind and heavy 
rains. Stephen Murdoch came home in a storm. On the 
day fixed for his return, his wife scarcely left her seat at 
the window for an hour. She sat looking out at the driv- 
ing rain with a pale and rigid face ; when the night fell 
and she rose to close the shutters, Hilary saw that her 
hands shook. 

She made the small room as bright as possible, and set 
the evening meal upon the table, and then sat down and 
waited again by the fire, cowering a little over it, but not 
speaking. 

u His being detained is not a bad sign,” said Hilary. 

Half an hour later they both started from their seats at 


18 


“HA WORTH'S. 


once. There was a loud summons at the door. It was 
Hilary who opened it, his mother following closely. 

A great gust of wind blew the rain in upon them, and 
Stephen Murdoch, wet and storm-beaten, stepped in from 
the outer darkness, carrying the wooden case in his 
hands. 

He seemed scarcely to see them. He made his way 
past them and into the lighted room with an uncertain 
step. The light appeared to dazzle him. He went to the 
sofa weakly and threw himself upon it ; he was trembling 
like a leaf ; he had aged ten years. 

“ I — I ” And then he looked up at them as they 

stood before him waiting. “ There is naught to say,” he 
cried out, and burst into wild, hysterical weeping, like 
that of a woman. 

In obedience to a sign from his mother, Hilary left the 
room. When, after the lapse of half an hour, he returned, 
all was quiet. His father lay upon the sofa with closed 
eyes, his mother sat near him. He did not rise nor touch 
food, and only spoke once during the evening. Then he 
opened his eyes and turned them upon the case which 
still stood where he had placed it. 

“ Take it away,” he said in a whisper. “ Take it away.” 

The next morning Hilary went to Floxham. 

“ I want work,” he said. “ Do you think I can get it 
here ? ” 

“ What soart does tha want ? ” asked the engineer, not 
too encouragingly. “ Th’ gentlemanly soart as tha con do 
wi’ kid-gloves an’ a eye-glass on ? ” 

“ No,” answered Murdoch, “ not that sort.” 

Floxham eyed him keenly. 

“ Would tha tak’ owt as was offert thee ? ” he demanded. 


11 NOT finished: 


19 


« I think I would.” 

“ Aw reet, then ! I’ll gie thee a chance. Coom tha wi’ 
me to tli’ engine-room, an’ see how long tha’lt stick to it.” 

It was very ordinary work he was given to do, but he 
seemed to take quite kindly to it ; in fact, the manner in 
which he applied himself to the rough tasks which fell to 
his lot gave rise to no slight dissatisfaction among his 
fellow-workmen, and caused him to be regarded with 
small respect. He was usually a little ahead of the stipu- 
lated time, he had an equable temper, and yet despite this 
and his civility, he seemed often more than half oblivious 
of the existence of those around him. A highly flavored 
joke did not awaken him to enthusiasm, and perhaps 
chiefest among his failings was noted the fact that he had 
no predilection for “ sixpenny,” and at his midday meal, 
which he frequently brought with him and ate in any 
convenient corner, he sat drinking cold water and eating 
his simple fare over a book. 

“ Th’ chap is na more than haaf theer,” was the opinion 
generally expressed. 

Since the night of his return from his journey, Stephen 
Murdoch had been out no more. The neighbors watched 
for him in vain. The wooden case stood unopened in his 
room, — he had never spoken of it. Through the long 
hours of the day he lay upon the sofa, either dozing or in 
silent wakefulness, and at length instead of upon the sofa 
he lay upon the bed, not having strength to rise. 

About three months after he had taken his place at 
Haworth’s, Hilary came home one evening to find his 
mother waiting for him at the door. She shed no tears, 
there was in her face only a hopeless terror. 

“ He has sent me out of the room,” she said. u He has 
been restless all day. He said he must be alone.” 


20 


HA WORTH'S. 


Hilary went upstairs. Opening the door he fell back 
a step. The model was in its old place on the work-table 
and near it stood a tall, gaunt, white figure. 

His father turned toward him. He touched himself 
upon the breast. “ I always told myself,” he said, inco- 
herently and hoarsely, “ that there was a flaw in it — that 
something was lacking. I have said that for thirty years, 
and believed the day would come when I should remedy 
the wrong. To-night I know. The truth has come to me 
at last. There was no remedy. The flaw was in me,” 
touching his hollow chest, — “ in me. As I lay there 1 
thought once that perhaps it was not real — that I had 
dreamed it all and might awake. I got up to see — to 
touch it. It is there ! Good God ! ” as if a sudden terror 
grasped him. “ Not finished ! — and I ” 

He fell into a chair and sank forward, his hand falling 
upon the model helplessly and unmeaningly. 

Hilary raised him and laid his head upon his shoulder. 
He heard his mother at the door and cried out loudly to 
her. 

“ Go back ! ” he said. “ Go back ! You must not 
come in.” 


CHAPTER IV. 


JANET BEIAELET. 

A WEEK later Hilary Murdoch returned from the Brox- 
ton grave-yard in a drizzling rain, and made his way to 
the bare, cleanly swept chamber upstairs. 

Since the night on which he had cried out to his mother 
that she must not enter, the table at which the dead man 
had been wont to sit at work had been pushed aside. 
Some one had thrown a white cloth over it. Murdoch 
went to it and drew this cloth away. He stood and 
looked down at the little skeleton of wood and steel. It 
had been nothing but a curse from tirst to last, and yet it 
fascinated him. He found it hard to do the thing he had 
come to do. 

“ It is not finished,” he said to the echoes of the empty 
room. “ It — never will be.” 

He slowly replaced it in its case, and buried it out of 
sight at the bottom of the trunk which, from that day for- 
ward, would stand unused and locked. 

When he arose, after doing this, he unconsciously struck 
his hands together as he had seen grave-diggers do when 
they brushed the damp soil away. 

The first time Haworth saw his new hand he regarded 
him with small favor. In crossing the yard one day 
at noon, he came upon him disposing of his midday 


22 


“ HAWORTH'S.' 


meal and reading at tlie same time. He stopped to look 
at him. 

“ Who’s that \ ” he asked one of the men. 

The fellow grinned in amiable appreciation of the rough 
tone of the query. 

“ That’s th’ ’Merican,” he answered. “ An ’ a soft un 
he is.” 

" What’s that he’s reading ? ” 

“ Summat about engineerin’, loike as not. That’s his 
crank.” 

In the rush of his new plans and the hurry of the last 
few months, Haworth had had time to forget the man 
who had wished him “ good luck,” and whose pathetic fig- 
ure had been a shadow upon the first glow of his triumph. 
He did not connect him at all with the young fellow be- 
fore him. He turned away with a shrug of his burly 
shoulders. 

“ He doesn’t look like an Englishman,” he said. “ He 
hasn’t got backbone enough.” 

Afterward when the two accidentally came in contact, 
Haworth wasted few civil words. At times his domineer- 
ing brusqueness excited Murdoch to wonder. 

“ He’s a queer fellow, that Haworth,” he said reflect- 
ingly to Floxham. “ Sometimes 1 think he’s out of humor 
with me.” 

With the twelve-year-old daughter of one of the work- 
men, who used to bring her father’s dinner, the young 
fellow had struck up something of a friendship. She was 
the eldest of twelve, a mature young person, whose busi- 
ness-like air had attracted him. 

She had assisted her mother in the rearing of her fam- 
ily from her third year, and had apparently done with the 


JANEY BRIARLEY. 


23 


follies of youth. She was stunted with much nursing and 
her small face had a shrewd and careworn look. Mur- 
doch’s first advances she received with some distrust, but 
after a lapse of time they progressed fairly and, without 
any weak sentiment, were upon excellent terms. 

One rainy day she came into the yard enveloped in a 
large shawl, evidently her mother’s, and also evidently 
very much in her way. Her dinner-can, her beer-jug, and 
her shawl were more than she could manage. 

“ Eh ! I am in a mess,” she said to Hilary, stopping at 
the door-way with a long-drawn breath. “ I dunnot know 
which way to turn — what wi’ th’ beer and what wi’ th’ 
dinner. I’ve getten on mother’s Sunday shawl as she had 
afore she wur wed, an’ th’ eends keep a-draggin’ an’ a- 
draggin’, an’ th’ mud’ll be th’ ruin on em. Th’ pin mother 
put in is na big enow, an’ it’s getten loose.” 

There was perhaps not much sense of humor in the 
young man. He did not seem to see the grotesqueness of 
the little figure with its mud-bedraggled maternal wrap- 
pings. He turned up the lapel of his coat and examined 
it quite seriously. 

“I’ve got a pin here that will hold it,” he said. “I 
picked it up because it was such a large one.” 

Janey Briar] ey’s eyes brightened. 

“Eh !” she ejaculated, “that theer’s a graidely big un. 
Some woman mun ha’ dropped it out o’ her shawl. Wheer 
did tha foind it ? ” 

“ In the street.” 

“ I thowt so. Some woman’s lost it. Dost tha think 
tha con pin it reet, or mun I put th’ beer down an’ do it 
mysen ? ” 

He thought he could do it and bent down to reach her 
level. 


24 


HA WORTH'S.” 


It was at this moment that Haworth approached the 
door with the intention of passing out. Things had gone 
wrong with him, and he was in one of his worst moods. 
He strode down the passage in a savage hurry, and, find- 
ing his way barred, made no effort to keep his temper. 

“ Get out of the road,” he said, and pushed Murdoch 
aside slightly with his foot. 

It was as if he had dropped a spark of fire into gun- 
powder. Murdoch sprang to his feet, white with wrath 
and quivering. 

“ I) n you ! ” he shrieked. “ D n you ! I’ll kill 

you ! ” and he rushed upon him. 

As he sprang upon him, Haworth staggered between 
the shock and his amazement. A sense of the true nature 
of the thing he had done broke in upon him. 

When it was all over he fell back a pace, and a grim 
surprise, not without its hint of satisfaction, was in his 
face. 

“ The devil take you,” he said. “ You have got some 
blood in you, after all.” 


CHAPTER V. 


THE BEGINNING OF A FRIENDSHIP. 

The next morning, when he appeared at the Works, 
Murdoch found he had to make his way through a group 
of the “ hands ” which some sufficiently powerful motive 
had gathered together, — which group greeted his appear- 
ance with signs of interest. “Tlieer he is,” he heard 
them say. And then a gentleman of leisure, who was an 
outsider leaning against the wall, enjoying the solace of a 
short pipe, exerted himself to look round and add his 
comment. 

“Well,” he remarked, “he may ha’ done it, an’ I wun- 
not stick out as he did na ; but if it wur na fur the cir- 
cumstantshal evidence I would na ha’ believed it.” 

Floxham met him at the entrance with a message. 

“ Haworth’s sent fur thee,” he said. 

“ Where is he ? ” — coolly enough under the circum- 
stances. 

The engineer chuckled in sly exultation. 

“ He’s in the office. He didna say nowt about givin’ 
thee th’ bag ; but tha may as well mak’ up thy moind to 
it. Tha wert pretty cheeky, tha knows, considerin’ he 
wur th’ mester.” 

“ Look here,” with some heat ; “ do you mean to say 
you think I was in the wrong ? Am I to let the fellow 
insult me and not resent it — touch me with his foot, as if 
I were a dog ? ” 


26 


“HAWORTH'S: 


“ Tha’rt particular, my lad,” dryly. “ An’ tha does na 
know as much o’ th’ mester koind as most folk.” But the 
next instant he flung down the tool he held in his hand. 
“ Dom thee ! ” he cried. “ 1 loike thy pluck. Stick to it, 
lad, — mesters or no mesters.” 

As Murdoch crossed the threshold of his room, Jem 
Haworth turned in his seat and greeted him with a short 
nod not altogether combative. Then he leaned forward, 
with his arms upon the table before him. 

“ Sit down,” he said. “ I’d like to take a look at the 
chap who thought he could thrash Jem Haworth.” 

But Murdoch did not obey him. 

“ I suppose you have something to say to me,” he said, 
“ as you sent for me.” 

He did not receive the answer he was prepared for. 
Jem Haworth burst into a loud laugh. 

“ By George ! you’re a plucky chap,” he said, “ if you 
are an American.” 

Murdoch’s blood rose again. 

“ Say what you have to say,” he demanded. “ I can 
guess what it is ; but, let me tell you, I should do the 
same thing again. It was no fault of mine that I was in 
your path ” 

“ If I’d been such a fool as not to see that,” put in 
Haworth, with a smile grimmer than before, “ do you 
think I couldn’t have smashed every bone in your body ? ” 

Then Murdoch comprehended how matters were to 
stand between them. 

“ Getten th’ bag ? ” asked Floxham when he went back 
to his work. 

“Ho.” 

“ Tha hannot ? ” with animation. “ Well, dang me ! ” 

At the close of the day, as they were preparing to leave 


THE BEGINNING OF A FRIENDSHIP. 


27 


their work, Haworth presented himself in the engine- 
room, looking perhaps a trifle awkward. 

“ See here,” he said to Murdoch, “ I’ve heard something 
to-day as I’ve missed hearing before, somehow. The in- 
venting chap was your father % ” 

“ Yes.” 

He stood in an uneasy attitude, looking out of the win- 
dow as if he half expected to see the frail, tall figure 
again. 

“ I saw him once, poor chap,” he said, “ and he stuck to 
me, somehow. I’d meant to stand by him if he’d come 
here. I’d have liked to do him a good turn.” 

He turned to Murdoch suddenly and with a hint of em- 
barrassment in his off-hand air. 

“ Come up and have dinner with me,” he said. “ It’s 
devilish dull spending a chap’s nights in a big place like 
mine. Come up with me now.” 

The visit was scarcely to Murdoch’s taste, but it was 
easier to accept than to refuse. He had seen the house 
often, and had felt some slight curiosity as to its inside 
appearance. 

There was only one other house in Broxton which ap- 
proached it in size and splendor, and this stood empty at 
present, its owner being abroad. Broxton itself was a 
sharp and dingy little town, whose inhabitants were 
mostly foundry hands. It had grown up around the 
Works and increased with them. It had a small railway 
station, two or three public houses much patronized, and 
wore, somehow, an air of being utterly unconnected with 
the outside world which much belied it. Motives of util- 
ity, a desire to be on the spot, and a general disregard for 
un-business-like attractions had led Haworth to build his 
house on the outskirts of the town. 


28 


“HAWORTH'S: 


“ When I want a spree,” he had said, “ I can go to 
Manchester or London, and I’m not particular about the 
rest on it. I want to be nigh the place.” 

It was a big house and a handsome one. It was one of 
the expressions of the man’s success, and his pride was in- 
volved in it. He spent money on it lavishly, and, having 
completed it, went to live a desolate life among its gran- 
deurs. 

The inhabitants of the surrounding villages, which were 
simple and agricultural, regarded Broxton with frank dis- 
taste, and “ Haworth’s” with horror. Haworth’s smoke 
polluted their atmosphere. Haworth’s hands made weekly 
raids upon their towns and rendered themselves obnoxious 
in their streets. The owner of the Works, his mode of 
life, his defiance of opinion, and his coarse sins, were sup- 
posed to be tabooed subjects. The man was ignored, and 
left to his visitors from the larger towns, — visitors who 
occasionally presented themselves to be entertained at his 
house in a fashion of his own, and who were a greater 
scandal than all the rest. 

“ They hate me,” said Haworth to his visitor, as they sat 
down to dinner ; “ they hate me, the devil take ’em. I’m 
not moral enough for ’em — not moral enough ! ” with a 
shout of laughter. 

There was something unreal to his companion in the 
splendor with which the great fellow was surrounded. 
The table was covered with a kind of banquet ; servants 
moved about noiselessly as he talked and laughed; the 
appointments of the room were rich and in good taste. 

“ Oh ! it’s none of my work,” he said, seeing Murdoch 
glance about him. “ I wasn’t fool enough to try to do it 
myslef. I gave it into the hands of them as knew how.” 

He was loud-tongued and boastful ; but he showed good- 


THE BEGINNING OF A FRIENDSHIP. 


29 


nature enough and a rough wit, and it was also plain that 
he knew his own strength and weaknesses. 

“ Thirty year’ your father was at work on that notion of 
his ? ” he said once during the evening. 

Murdoch made an uneasy gesture of assent. 

“ And it never came to aught ? ” 

“ No.” 

“He died.” 

“ Yes.” 

He thrust his hands deep in his pockets, and gave the 
young fellow a keen look. 

“ Why don’t you take the thing up yourself ? ” he said. 
“ There may be something in it, after all, and you’re a 
long-headed chap.” 

Murdoch started from his chair. He took an excited 
turn across the room before he knew what he was doing. 

“ 1 never will,” he said, “ so help me God ! The thing’s 
done with and shut out of the world.” 

When he went away, Haworth accompanied him to the 
door. At the threshold he turned about. 

“ How do you like the look of things ? ” he demanded. 

u I should be hard to please if I did not like the look of 
them,” was the answer. 

“ Well, then, come again. You’re welcome. I have it 
all to myself. I’m not favorite enow with the gentry to 
bring any on ’em here. You’re free to come when th’ fit 
takes you.” 


CHAPTER VL 


MISS FFRENCH. 

It was considered, after this, a circumstance illustrative 
of Haworth’s peculiarities that he had taken to himself a 
; protege from among the “ hands ; ” that said protege was 
an eccentric young fellow who was sometimes spoken of 
as being scarcely as bright as he should be ; that he occa- 
sionally dined or supped with Haworth ; that he spent 
numberless evenings with him, and that he read his books, 
which would not have been much used otherwise. 

Murdoch lived his regular, unemotional life, in happy 
ignorance of these rumors. It was true that he gradually 
fell into the habit of going to Haworth’s house, and also 
of reading his books. Indeed, if the truth were told, these 
had been his attraction. 

“I’ve no use for ’em,” said Haworth, candidly, on 
showing him his library. “ Get into ’em, if you’ve a fancy 
for ’em.” 

His fancy for them was strong enough to bring him to 
the place again and again. He found books he had 
wanted, but never hoped to possess. The library, it may 
be admitted, was not of Jem Haworth’s selection, and, in- 
deed, this gentleman’s fancy for his new acquaintance 
was not a little increased by a shrewd admiration for an 
intellectual aptness which might be turned to practical 
account. 


MISS FFRENCH. 


31 


“ You tackle ’em as if you were used to ’em,” he used 
to say. “ I’d give something solid myself if I could do 
the same. There’s what’s against me many a time — 
knowing naught of books, and having to tight my way 
rough and ready.” 

From the outset of this acquaintance, Murdoch’s posi- 
tion at the Works had been an easier one. It became 
understood that Haworth would stand by him, and that 
he must be treated with a certain degree of respect. 
Greater latitude was given him, and better pay, and 
though he remained in the engine-room, other and more 
responsible work frequently fell into his hands. 

He went on in the even tenor of his way, uncommuni- 
cative and odd as ever. He still presented himself ahead 
of time, and labored with the unnecessary, absorbed 
ardor of an enthusiast, greatly to the distaste of those less 
zealous. 

“ Tha gets into it as if tha wur doin’ fur thysen,” said 
one of these. “ Happen ” — feeling the sarcasm a strong 
one — “ happen tha’rt fond on it ? ” 

“ Oh yes,” — unconsciously — “ that’s it, I suppose. I’m 
fond of it.” 

The scoffer bestowed upon him one thunderstruck 
glance, opened his mouth, shut it, and retired in disgust. 

“ Theer’s a chap,” he said, jerking his thumb over his 
shoulder, on returning to his companions, “ theer’s a chap 
as says he’s fond o’ work — fond on it ! ” with dramatic 
scorn. “ Blast his eyes ! Fond on it ! ” 

With Floxham he had always stood well, though even 
Floxham’s regard was tempered with a slight private con- 
tempt for peculiarities not easily tolerated by the practi- 
cal mind. 

“ Tli’ chap’s getten gumption enow, i’ his way,” he said 


32 


“ HA WORTH'S: 


to Haworth. “ If owt breaks down or gets out o’ gear, 
he’s aw theer ; but theer is na a lad on th’ place as could 
na cheat him out o’ his eye-teeth.” 

His reputation for being a “ queer chap ” was greatly 
increased by the simplicity and seclusion of his life. The 
house in which he lived with his mother had the atmos- 
phere of a monastic cell. As she had devoted herself to 
her husband, the woman devoted herself to her son, 
watching him with a hungry eye. He was given to tak- 
ing long stretches of walks, and appearing in distant vil- 
lages, book in hand, and with apparently no ulterior 
object in view. His holidays were nearly all spent out- 
of-doors in such rambles as these. The country people 
began to know his tall figure and long stride, and to 
regard him with the friendly toleration of strength for 
weakness. 

“ They say i’ Broxton,” it was said among them, “ as 
his feyther deed daft, and it’s no wonder th’ young chap’s 
getten queer ways. He’s good-natured enow, though i’ a 
simple road.” 

His good-nature manifested itself in more than one way 
which called forth comment. To his early friendship for 
Janey he remained faithful. The child interested him, 
and the sentiment developed as it grew older. 

It was quite natural that, after a few months’ acquain- 
tance, he should drop in at the household of her parents 
on Saturday afternoon, as he was passing. It was the 
week’s half-holiday and a fine day, and he had nothing 
else to do. These facts, in connection with that of the 
Briarley’s cottage presenting itself, were reasons enough 
for going in. 

It occurred to him, as he entered the narrow strip of 
garden before the door, that the children of the neighbor- 


MISS FFRENGH. 


33 


hood must have congregated to hold high carnival. 
Groups made dirt-pies ; clusters played “ bobber and 
kibbs ; ” select parties settled differences of opinions 
with warmth of feeling and elevation of voice ; a youth 
of tender years, in corduroys which shone with friction, 
stood upon his head in one corner, calmly but not haugh- 
tily presenting to the blue vault of heaven a pair of pon- 
derous, brass-finished clogs. 

“ What dost want ? ” he demanded, without altering his 
position. “ Th’ missus isn’t in.” 

“ I’m going in to see Janey,” explained Murdoch. 

He found the little kitchen shining with the Saturday 
“ cleaning up.” The flagged floor as glaringly spotless 
as pipe-clay and sandstone could make it, the brass oven- 
handles and tin pans in a condition to put an intruder 
out of countenance, the tire replenished, and Janey sitting 
on a stool on the hearth enveloped in an apron of her 
mother’s, and reading laboriously aloud. 

“ Eh ! dear me ! ” she exclaimed. “ It’s yo’ — an’ I am 
na fit to be seen. I wur settin’ down to rest a bit. I’ve 
been doin’ th’ cleanin’ aw day, an’ I wur real done 
fur.” 

“ Never mind that,” said Murdoch. “ That’s all right 
enough.” 

He cast about him for a safe position to take— one in 
which he could stretch his legs and avoid damaging the 
embarrassing purity of the floor. Finally he settled upon 
a small print-covered sofa and balanced himself carefully 
upon its extreme edge and the backs of his heels, notwith- 
standing Janey ’s civil protestations. 

“ Dunnot yo’ moind th’ floor,” she said. “ Yo’ needn’t. 
Set yo’ down comfortable.” 

“ Oh, I’m all right,” answered Murdoch, with calm good 
2 * 


34 


HA WORTH'S.' 


cheer. “This is comfortable enough. What’s that you 
were reading ? ” 

Janey settled down upon her stool with a sigh at once 
significant of relief and a readiness to indulge in friendly 
confidence. 

“ It’s a book I getten fro’ th’ Broxton Chapel Sunday 
Skoo’. Its th’ Mem — m-e-m-o-i-r-s ” 

“ Memoirs,” responded Murdoch. 

“ Memoyers of Mary Ann Gibbs.” 

Unfortunately her visitor was not thoroughly posted on 
the subject of the Broxton Chapel literature. He cast 
about him mentally, but with small success. 

“ I don’t seem to have heard of it before,” was the con- 
clusion he arrived at. 

“ Hannot yo’ ? Well, it’s a noice book, an’ theer’s lots 
more like it in th’ skoo’ libery — aw about Sunday skoo’ 
scholars as has consumption an’ th’ loike an’ reads th’ 
boible to foalk an’ dees. They aw on ’em dee.” 

“ Oh,” doubtfully, but still with respect. “ It’s not very 
cheerful, is it ? ” 

Janey shook her head with an expression of mature 
resignation. 

“Eh no! they’re none on ’em cheerful — but they’re 
noice to read. This here un now — she had th’ asthma an’ 
summat wrong wi’ her legs, an’ she knowed aw’ th’ boible 
through aside o’ th’ hymn-book, an’ she’d sing aw th’ toime 
when she could breathe fur th’ asthma, an’ tell foak as if 
they did na go an’ do likewise they’d go to burnin’ hell 
wheer th’ fire is na quenched an’ th’ worms dyeth 
not.” 

u It can’t have been very pleasant for the friends,” was 
her companion’s comment. But there was nothing jocose 
about his manner. He was balancing himself seriously 


MISS FFRENCH. 


35 


on the edge of the hard little sofa and regarding her with 
speculative interest. 

“ Where’s your mother ? ” he asked next. 

“ Hoo’s gone to th’ chapel,” was the answer. “ Theer’s 
a mothers’ meetin’ in th’ vestry, an’ hoo’s gone theer an’ 
takken th’ babby wi’ her. Th’ rest o’ th’ childer is playin’ 
out at th’ front.” 

He glanced out of the door. 

“ Those — those are not all yours ? ” he said, thunder- 
struck. 

“ Aye, they are — that. Eh ! ” drawing a long breath, 
“but is na there a lot on ’em? Theer’s eleven an’ I’ve 
nussed ’em nigh ivvery one.” 

He turned toward the door again. 

“ There seems to be a great many of them,” he remarked. 
“ You must have had a great deal to do.” 

“ That I ha’. I’ve wished mony a time I’d been a rich 
lady. Theer’s that daughter o’ Ffrench’s now. Eh ! I’d 
like to ha’ bin her.” 

“ I never heard of her before,” he answered. “ Who is 
she, and why do you choose her ? ” 

“ Cos she’s so hansum. She’s that theer grand she looks 
loike she thowt ivvery body else wur dirt. I’ve seen 
women as wur bigger, an’ wore more cloas at onct, but I 
nivver seed none as grand as she is. I nivver seed her 
but onct. She coom here wi’ her feyther fer two or three 
week’ afore he went to furrin parts, an’ she wur caught i’ 
th’ rain one day an’ stopped in here a bit. She dropped 
her hankcher an’ mother’s getten it yet. It’s nigh aw lace. 
Would yo’ loike to see it ? ” hospitably. 

“Yes,” feeling his lack of enthusiasm something of a 
fault. “ I — dare say I should.” 

From the depths of a drawer which she opened with a 


36 


“ HA WORTH'S. 


vigorous effort and some skill in retaining her balance, she 
produced something pinned up in a fragment of old linen. 
This she bore to her guest and unpinning it, displayed 
r Jbe handkerchief. 

“ Tha can tak’ it in thy hond an’ smell it,” she said gra^ 
ciously. “ It’s getten scent on it.” 

Murdoch took it in his hand, scarcely knowing what 
else to do. He knew nothing of women and their finery. 
He regarded the fragrant bit of lace and cambric seri- 
ously, and read in one corner the name “ Rachel Ffrench,” 
written in delicate letters. Then he returned it to Janey. 

“ Thank you,” he said, “ it is very nice.” 

Janey bore it back perhaps with some slight inward 
misgivings as to the warmth of its reception, but also with 
a tempering recollection of the ways of “ men-foak.” 
When she came back to her stool, she changed the sub- 
ject. 

“ We’ve bin havin’ trouble lately,” she said. “ Eh ! 
but I’ve seed a lot o’ trouble i’ my day.” 

“ What is the trouble now ? ” Murdoch asked. 

“ Feyther. It’s alius him. He’s getten in wi’ a bad 
lot an’ he’s drinkin’ agen. Seems loike neyther mother 
nor me con keep him straight fur aw we told him 
Haworth’ll turn him off. Haworth’s not goin’ to stand 
his drink an’ th’ lot he goes wi’. I would na stand it 
mysen.” 

“ What lot does he go with ? ” 

“ Eh ! ” impatiently, “ a lot o’ foo’s as stands round th’ 
publics an’ grumbles at th’ mesters an’ th’ wages they get. 
An’ feyther’s one o’ these soft uns as believes aw they 
hears an’ has na’ getten gumption to think fur his sen. 
I’ve looked after him ivver sin’ I wur three.” 

She became even garrulous in her lack of patience, and 


MISS FFRENCH. 


37 


was in full flow when her mother entered returning from 
the chapel, with a fagged face, and a large baby on her 
hip. 

“ Here, tak’ him, Jane Ann,” she said; “ but tak’ off 
thy apron furst, or tha’lt tumble ower it an’ dirty his 
clean bishop wi’ th’ muck tha’s getten on it. Eh! I am 
tired. Who’s this here ? ” signifying Murdoch. 

“ It’s Mester Murdoch,” said Janey, dropping the 
apron and taking the child, who made her look top-heavy. 
“ Sit thee down, mother. Yo’ needn’t moind him. He’s 
a workin’ mon hissen.” 

When Murdoch took his departure, both accompanied 
him to the door. 

“ Coom in sometime when th’ mester’s here,” said Mrs. 
Briarley. “ Happen yo’ could keep him in a neet an’ that 
ud be summat. ” 

Half way up the lane he met Haworth in his gig, 
which he stopped. 

“ Wheer hast tha been ? ” he asked, dropping into dia- 
lect, as he was prone to do. 

“ To Briarley’s cottage, talking to the little girl.” 

Haworth stared at him a moment, and then burst into 
a laugh. 

“ Tha’rt a queer chap,” he said. “ I can no more than 
half make thee out. If thy head was not so level, I should 
think tha wert a bit soft.” 

“ I don’t see why,” answered Murdoch, undisturbed. 
u The child interests me. I am not a Lancashire man, 
remember, and she is a new species.” 

“ Get in,” said Haworth, making room for him on the 
seat. 

Murdoch got in, and as they drove on it occurred to 
him to ask a question. 


38 


“HAWORTH'S." 


“ Who's Ffrench?” 

“Ffrench?” said Haworth. “Oh, Ffrench is one o’ 
th’ nobs here. He’s a chap with a fancy for being a gen- 
tleman-manufacturer. He’s spent his brass on his notions, 
until he has been obliged to draw in his horns a bit. 
He’s never lived much in Broxton, though he’s got a 
pretty big place here. The Continent’s the style for 
him, but he’ll turn up here again some day when he’s 
hard up enow. There’s his place now.” 

And as he spoke they drove sharply by a house stand- 
ing closed among the trees and having an air of desolate- 
ness, in spite of the sun- light. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE “ WHO’D HA’ THOWT IT?” 

“ It’s th’ queerest thing i’ th’ world,” said Mrs. Briar- 
ley to her neighbors, in speaking of her visitor , — u it’s th’ 
queerest thing i’ th’ world as he should be a workin’ raon. 
I should ha’ thowt he’d ha’ wanted to get behind th’ 
counter i’ a draper’s shop or summat genteel. He’d be a 
well-lookin’ young chap i’ a shiny cloth coat an’ wi’ a 
blue neck-tie on. Seems loike he does na think enow o’ 
hissen. He’ll coom to our house an’ set down an’ listen 
to our Janey talkin’, an’ tell her things out o’ books, as 
simple as if he thowt it wur nowt but what ony chap could 
do. Theer’s wheer he’s a bit soft. He knows nowt o’ 
settin’ hissen up.” 

From Mrs. Briarley Murdoch heard numberless stories 
of Haworth, presenting him in a somewhat startling 
light. 

“ Eh ! but he’s a rare un, is Haworth,” said the good 
woman. “ He does na care fur mon nor devil. The car- 
rying on as he has up at th’ big house ud mak’ a decent 
body’s hair stond o’ eend. Afore he built th’ house, he 
used to go to Lunnon an’ Manchester fur his sprees, but 
he has ’em here now, an’ theer’s drink an’ riotin’ an’ 
finery and foak as owt to be shamt o’ theirsens. I won- 
der he is na feart to stay on tli’ place alone after they’re 
gone.” 


40 


HA WORTH'S. 


But for one reason or another the house was quiet 
enough for the first six months of Murdoch’s acquain- 
tance with its master. Haworth gave himself up to the 
management of the Works. He perfected plans he had 
laid at a time when the power had not been in his own 
hands. He kept his eye on his own interests sharply. 
The most confirmed shirkers on the place found them- 
selves obliged to fall to work, however reluctantly. His 
bold strokes of business enterprise began to give him 
wide reputation. In the lapse of its first half year, 
“ Haworth’s ” gained for itself a name. 

At the end of this time, Murdoch arrived at the Works 
one morning to find a general tone of conviviality reign- 
ing. A devil-may-care air showed itself among all the 
graceless. There was a hint of demoralization in the very 
atmosphere. 

u Where’s Haworth ? ” he asked Floxham, who did not 
seem to share the general hilarity. “ I’ve not seen him.” 

“ Ho,” was the engineer’s answer, “ nor tha will na see 
him yet a bit. A lot o’ foo’s coom fro’ Lunnon last neet. 
He’s on one o’ his sprees, an’ a nice doment they’ll ha’ on 
it afore they’re done.” 

The next morning Haworth dashed down to the Works 
early in his gig, and spent a short time in his room. Be- 
fore he left he went to the engine-room, and spoke to 
Murdoch. 

“ Is there aught you want from the house — aught in the 
way o’ books, I mean ? ” he said, with a touch of rough 
bravado in his manner. 

“ No,” Murdoch answered. 

“ All right,” he returned. “ Then keep away, lad, for 
a day or two.” 

During the “ day or two,” Broxton existed in a state of 


THE “ WHO'D HA ’ THOWT IT f 


41 


ferment. Gradually an air of disreputable festivity began 
to manifest itself among all those whose virtue was as- 
sailable. There were open “ sprees ” among these, and 
their wives, with the inevitable baby in their arms, stood 
upon their door-steps bewailing their fate, and retailing 
gossip with no slight zest. 

“ Silks an’ satins, bless yo’,” they said. “ An’ paint an’ 
feathers ; th’ brazent things, I wonder they are na shamt 
to show their faces ! A noice mester Haworth is to ha’ 
men under him ! ” 

Having occasion to go out late one evening, Murdoch 
encountered Janey, clad in the big bonnet and shawl, 
and hurrying along the street. 

“ Wheer am I goin’?” she echoed sharply in reply to 
his query. “ Why, I’m goin’ round to th’ publics to look 
fur feyther — tkeer's wheer I’m goin’. I hannot seed him 
sin’ dayleet this mornin’, an’ he’s getten th’ rent an’ th’ 
buryin’-club money wi’ him.” 

“ I’ll go with you,” said Murdoch. 

He went with her, making the round of half the public- 
houses in the village, finally ending at a jovial establish- 
ment bearing upon its whitened window the ambiguous 
title “ who’d ha’ thowt it ? ” 

There was a sound of argument accompanied by a fid- 
dle, and an odor of beer supplemented by tobacco. Janey 
pushed open the door and made her way in, followed by 
her companion. 

An uncleanly, and loud-voiced fellow stood unsteadily 
at a table, flourishing a clay pipe and making a speech. 

“ Th’ workin’ mon,” he said. “ Theer’s too much talk 
o’ th’ workin’ mon. Is na it bad enow to be a workin’ 
mon, wi’out havin’ th’ gentry remindin’ yo’ on it fro’ year 
eend to year eend ? Le’s ha’ less jaw- work an’ more paw- 


42 


“HAWORTH'S” 


work fro’ th’ gentry. Le’s ha’ fewer liberys an’ athyne* 
urns, an’ more wage — an’ holidays — an’ — an’ beer. Le’s 
pro-g ress — tha’s wha’ I say — an’ I’m a workin’ mon.” 

“ Ee-er ! Ee-er ! ” cried the chorus. “ Ee-er ! ” 

In the midst of the pause following these acclamations, 
a voice broke in suddenly with startling loudness. 

“ Ee-er ! Ee-er ! ” it said. 

It was Mr. Briarley, who had unexpectedly awakened 
from a beery nap, and, though much surprised to find out 
where he was, felt called upon to express his approba- 
tion. 

Janey hitched her shawl into a manageable length and 
approached him. 

“ Tha’rt here ? ” she said. “ I knowed tha would be. 
Tha’lt worrit th’ loife out on us afore tha’rt done. Coom 
on home wi’ me afore tha’st spent ivvery ha’penny we’ve 
getten.” 

Mr. Briarley roused himself so far as to smile at her 
blandly. 

“ It’s Zhaney,” he said, “ it’s Zhaney. Don’ intrup th’ 
meetin’, Zhaney. I’ll be home dreckly. Mus’ na intrup 
th’ workin’ mon. He’s th’ backbone ’n’ sinoo o’ th’ coun- 
try. Le’s ha’ a sup more beer.” 

Murdoch bent over and touched his shoulder. 

u You had better come home,” he said. 

The man looked round at him blankly, but the next 
moment an exaggerated expression of enlightenment 
showed itself on his face. 

u Iss th’ ’Merican,” he said. “ Iss Murdoch.” And 
then, with sudden bibulous delight : “ Gi’ us a speech 

’bout ’Merica.” 

In a moment there was a clamor all over the room. 
The last words had been spoken loudly enough to be 


THE “ WHO'D HA' THOWT IT? 


43 


heard, and the idea presented itself to the members of 
the assembly as a happy one. 

“ Aye,” they cried. “ Le’s ha’ a speech fro’ th’ ’Meri- 
can. Le’s hear summat fro’ ’Merica. Theer’s wheer th’ 
laborin’ mon has his dues.” 

Murdoch turned about and faced the company. 

“ You all know enough of me to know whether I am a 
speech-making man or not,” he said. “ I have nothing to 
say about America, and if I had I should not say it here. 
You are not doing yourselves any good. The least fellow 
among you has brains enough to tell him that.” 

There was at once a new clamor, this time one of dissa- 
tisfaction. The speech-maker with the long clay, who 
was plainly the leader, expressed himself with heat and 
scorn. 

“ He’s a noice chap — he is,” he cried. “ He’ll ha’ nowt 
to do wi’ us. He’s th’ soart o’ workin’ mon to ha’ abowt, 
to play th’ pianny an’ do paintin’ i’ velvet. ’Merica be 
danged! He’s more o’ th’ gentry koind to-day than 
Haworth. Haworth does tak’ a decent spree now an’ 

then ; but this heer un Ax him to tak’ a glass o’ beer 

an’ see what he’ll say.” 

Disgust was written upon every countenance, but no 
one proffered the hospitality mentioned. Mr. Briarley had 
fallen asleep again, murmuring suggestively, “Aye, le’s 
hear summat fro’ ’Merica. Le’s go to ’Merica. Pu-r on 
thy bonnet, lass, pur — it on.” 

With her companion’s assistance, Janey got him out of 
the place and led him home. 

“ Haaf th’ rent’s gone,” she said, when she turned out 
his pockets, as he sat by the fire. “ An’ wheer’s th’ bury- 
in’ money to coom fro’ ? ” 

Mr. Briarley shook his head mournfully. 


44 


“HAWORTH'S.” 


“ Th’ buryin’ money,” he said. “ Aye, i’deed. A noice 
thing it is fur a poor chap to ha’ to cut off his beer to pay 
fur his coffin by th’ week, — wastin’ good brass on summat 
he may nivver need as long as he lives. I dunnot loike 
th’ thowt on it, eyther. It’s bad enow to ha’ to get into 
th’ thing at th’ eend, wi’out ha’in’ it lugged up to th’ door 
ivvery Saturday, an’ payin’ fur th’ ornymentin’ on it by 
inches.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


MR. FFRENCH. 

It was a week before affairs assumed their accustomed 
aspect. Not that the Works had been neglected, however. 
Each morning Haworth had driven down early and spent 
an hour in his office and about the place, reading letters, 
issuing orders and keeping a keen look-out generally. 

“ I’ll have no spreeing here among you chaps,” he an- 
nounced. “ Spree as much as you like when th’ work’s 
done, but you don’t spree in my time. Look sharp after 
’em, Kendal.” 

The day after his guests left him he appeared at his 
usual time, and sent at once for Murdoch. 

On his arriving he greeted him, leaning back in his 
chair, his hands thrust into his pockets. 

“ Well, lad,” he said, “ it’s over.” 

Almost unconsciously, Murdoch thrust his hands into 
his pockets also, but the action had rather a reflective than 
a defiant expression. 

“ It’s lasted a pretty long time, hasn’t it ? ” he re- 
marked. 

Haworth answered him with a laugh. 

“ Egad ! You take it cool enough,” he said. 

Suddenly he got up and began to walk about, his air a 
mixture of excitement and braggadocio. After a turn or 
two he wheeled about. 


46 


“ HAWORTH'S : 


“ Why don’t you say summat ? ” he demanded, sardoni- 
cally. “Summat moral. You don’t mean to tell me 
you’ve not got pluck enow ? ” 

“ I don’t see,” said Murdoch, deliberately, — •“ I don’t see 
that there’s anything to say. Do you \ ” 

The man stared at him, reddening. Then he turned 
about and flung himself into his chair again. 

“ No,” he answered. “ By George ! I don’t.” 

They discussed the matter no further. It seemed to 
dispose of itself. Their acquaintance went on in the old 
way, but there were moments afterward when Murdoch 
felt that the man regarded him with something that might 
have been restrained or secret fear — a something which 
held him back and made him silent and unready of 
speech. Once, in the midst of a conversation taking a 
more confidential tone than usual, to his companion’s as- 
tonishment he stopped and spoke bluntly : 

“ If I say aught as goes against the grain with you,” he 
said, “ speak up, lad. Blast it ! ” striking his fist hard 
against his palm, “ I’d like to show my clean side to 
you.” 

It was at this time that he spoke first of his mother. 

“When I run away from the poor-house,” he said, “I 
left her there. She’s a soft-hearted body — a good one too. 
As soon as I earned my first fifteen shillin’ a week, I gave 
her a house of her own — and I lived hard to do it. She 
lives like a lady now, though she’s as simple as ever. She 
knows naught of the world, and she knows naught of me 
beyond what she sees of me when I go down to the little 
country-place in Kent with a new silk gown and a lace cap 
for her. She scarce ever wears ’em, but she’s as fond on 
’em as if she got ’em from Buckingham Palace. She 
thinks I’m a lad yet, and say my prayers every night and 


MR. FFRENCH. 


47 


the catechism on Sundays. She’ll never know aught else, 
if I can help it. That’s why I keep her where she is.” 

When he said that he intended to make “ Haworth’s ” 
second to no place in England, he had not spoken idly. 
His pride in the place was a passion. He spent money 
lavishly but shrewdly ; he paid his men well, but ruled 
them with an iron hand. Those of his fellow-manufac- 
turers who were less bold and also less keen-sighted, re- 
garded him with no small disfavor. 

“ He’ll have trouble yet, that Haworth fellow,” they 
said. 

But “ Haworth’s ” flourished and grew. The original 
works were added to, and new hands, being called for, 
flocked into Broxton with their families. It was Jem 
Haworth who built the rows of cottages to hold them, and 
he built them well and substantially, but as a sharp busi- 
ness investment and a matter of pride rather than from 
any weakness of regarding them from a moral stand-point. 

“ I’ll have no poor jobs done on my place,” he announced. 
“I’ll leave that to the gentlemen manufacturers.” 

It was while in the midst of this work that he received 
a letter from Gerard Ffrench, who was still abroad. 

Going into his room one day Murdoch found him read- 
ing it and looking excited. 

“ Here’s a chap as would be the chap for me,” he said, 
“ if brass were iron — that chap Ffrench.” 

“ What does he want ? ” Murdoch asked. 

“ Naught much,” grimly. “ He’s got a notion of com- 
ing back here, and he’d like to go into partnership with 
me. That’s what he’s drivin’ at. He’d like to be a part- 
ner with Jem Haworth.” 

“ What has he to offer ? ” 

“ Cheek, and plenty on it. He says his name’s well 


48 


“ HA WORTH'S. 


known, and he’s got influence as well as practical knowl- 
edge. I’d like to have a bit of a talk with him.” 

Suddenly he struck his fist on the table before him. 

“ I’ve got a name that’s enow for me,” he said. “ The 
day’s to come yet when I ask any chap for name or money 
or aught else. Partner be damned ! This here’s 
‘ Haworth’s 1 ’ ” 


CHAPTER IX. 


“ NOT FOB ONE HOUB.” 

The meetings of the malcontents continued to be held at 
the “ Who’d ha 5 thowt it,’’ and were loud voiced and fre- 
quent, but notwithstanding their frequency and noisiness 
resulted principally in a disproportionate consumption of 
beer and tobacco and in some differences of opinion, de- 
cided in a gentlemanly manner with the assistance of 
“ backers ” and a ring. 

Having been rescued from these surroundings by Mur- 
doch on several convivial occasions, Briarley began to an- 
ticipate his appearance with resignation if not cheerfulness, 
and to make preparations accordingly. 

“ I mun lay a sup in reet at th’ start,” he would say. 
“ Theer’s no knowin’ how soon he’ll turn up if he drops 
in to see th’ women. Gi’ me a glass afore these chaps, 
Mary. They con wait a bit.” 

“ Why does tha stand it, tha foo’ ? ” some independent 
spirit would comment. “ Con th’ chap carry thee whoam 
if tha does na want to go? ” 

But Briarley never rebelled. Resistance was not his 
forte. If it were possible to become comfortably drunk 
before he was sought out and led away he felt it a matter 
for mild self-gratulation, but he bore defeat amiably. 

“Th’ missis wants me,” he would say unsteadily but 
with beaming countenance, on catching sight of Murdoch 
3 


50 


“HAWORTH'S. 


or Janey. “ Th’ missis has sent to ax me to go an’ — an’ 
set wi’ her a bit. I mun go, chaps. A man mnnna 
negleck his fam’ly.” 

In response to Mrs. Briarley’s ratings and Janey’s 
querulous appeals, it was his habit to shed tears copiously 
and with a touch of ostentation. 

“ I’m a poor chap, missus,” he would say. “ I’m a poor 
chap. Yo’ munnot be hard on me. I nivver wur good 
enow fur a woman loike yoursen. I should na wonder if 
I had to join th’ teetotals after aw. Tha knows it alius 
rains o’ Whit-Saturday, when they ha’ their walk, an’ 
that theer looks as if th’ Almoighty wur on th’ teetotal 
soide. It’s noan loike he’d go to so mich trouble if he 
were na.” 

At such crises as these “ th’ women foak,” as he called 
his wife and Janey, derived their greatest consolation 
from much going to chapel. 

“ If it wur na fur th’ bit o’ comfort I get theer,” said 
the poor woman, “ I should na know whether I wur 
standin’ on my head or my heels — betwixt him, an’ th’ 
work, an’ th’ childer.” 

“ Happen ye’d loike to go wi’ us,” said Janey to Mur- 
doch, one day. Yo’ll be sure to hear a good sermon t.” 

Murdoch went with them, and sat in a corner of their 
free seat — a hard one, with a straight and unrelenting 
back. But he was not prevented by the seat from being 
interested and even absorbed by the doctrine. He had 
an absent-minded way of absorbing impressions, and the 
unemotional tenor of his life had left him singularly im- 
partial. He did not finally decide that the sermon was 
good, bad, or indifferent, but he pondered on it and its 
probable effects deeply, and with no little curiosity. It 
was a long sermon, and one which “ hit straight from 


“ NOT FOR ONE HOUR.' 


51 


the shoulder.” It displayed a florid heaven and a burn- 
ing hell. It was literal, and well garnished with telling 
and scriptural quotations. Once or twice during its de- 
livery Murdoch glanced at Janey and Mrs. Briarley. 
The woman, during intervals of eager pacifying of the 
big baby, lifted her pale face and listened devoutly. 
Janey sat respectable and rigorous, her eyes fixed upon 
the pulpit, her huge shawl folded about her, her bonnet 
slipping backward at intervals, and requiring to be re- 
peatedly rearranged by a smart hustling somewhere in the 
region of the crown. 

The night was very quiet when they came out into the 
open air. The smoke-clouds of the day had been driven 
away by a light breeze, and the sky was bright with stars. 
Mrs. Briarley and the ubiquitous baby joined a neighbor 
and hastened home, but Murdoch and Janey lingered a 
little. 

“My father is buried here,” Murdoch had said, and 
Janey had answered with sharp curiousness, — 

“Wheer’s th’ place? I’d loike to see it. Has tha 
getten a big head-stone up ? ” 

She was somewhat disappointed to find there was none, 
and that nothing but the sod covered the long mound, 
but she appeared to comprehend the state of affairs at 
once. 

“ I s’pose tha’lt ha’ one after a bit,” she said, “ when 
tha’rt not so short as tha art now. Ivverybody’s short i’ 
these toimes.” 

She seated herself upon the stone coping of the next 
grave, her elbow on her knee, a small, weird figure in the 
uncertain light. 

“ I alius did loike a big head-stone,” she remarked, re- 
flectively. “ Theer’s suinmat noice about a big white un 


52 


“ HA WORTH'S. 


wi’ black letters on it. 1 loike a white un th’ best, an’ 
ha’ th’ letters cut deep, an’ th’ name big, an’ a bit o’ 
poitry at th’ eend : 


* Stranger, a moment linger near. 

An’ hark to th’ one as moulders here ; 

Thy bones, loike mine, shall rot i’ th’ ground, 

Until th’ last awful trumpet’s sound ; 

Thy flesh, loike mine, fa’ to decay, 

For mon is made to pass away. ’ 

Summat loike that. But yo’ see it ud be loike to cost so 
much. What wi’ th’ stone an’ paint an’ cuttin’, I should 
na wonder if it would na coom to th’ matter o’ two pound 
— an’ then theer’s th’ funeral.” 

She ended with a sigh, and sank for a moment into a 
depressed reverie, but in the course of a few moments she 
roused herself again. 

“ Tell me summat about thy feyther,” she demanded. 

Murdoch bent down and plucked a blade of grass with 
a rather uncertain grasp. 

“There isn’t much to tell,” he answered. “He was 
unfortunate, and had a hard life — and died.” 

Janey looked at his lowered face with a sharp, unchild- 
ish twinkle in her eye. 

“Would tha moind me axin thee summat?” she said. 

“ No.” 

But she hesitated a little before she put the question. 

“ Is it— wur it true — as he wur na aw theer — as he wur 
a bit — a bit soft i’ th’ yed ? ” 

“No, that is not true.” 

“ I’m glad it is na,” she responded. “ Art tha loike 
him ? ” 

“ I don’t know.” 


u NOT FOR ONE hour: 


53 


“ I hope tha art na, if he did 11a ha 5 luck. Theer’ s a 
great deal i’ luck.” Then, with a quick change of sub- 
ject, — “ How did tha loike th’ sermont ? ” 

“ I am not sure,” he answered, “ that I know that either. 
How did you like it yourself? ” 

“ Ay,” with an air of elderly approval, “ it wur a good 
un. Mester Ilixon alius gi’es us a good un. He owts wi’ 
what he’s getten to say. I loike a preacher as owts wi’ 
it.” 

A few moments later, when they rose to go home, her 
mind seemed suddenly to revert to a former train of 
thought. 

“ Wur theer money i’ that thing thy feyther wur try in’ 
at? ” she asked. 

“ Not for him, it seemed.” 

“ Ay ; but theer mought be fur thee. Tha mayst ha’ 
more in thee than he had, an’ mought mak’ summat on it. 
I’d nivver let owt go as had money i’ it. Tha’dst mak’ a 
better rich mon than Haworth.” 

After leaving her Murdoch did not go home. He 
turned his back upon the village again, and walked 
rapidly away from it, out on the country road and across 
field paths, and did not turn until he was miles from 
Broxton. 

Of late he had been more than usually abstracted. He 
had been restless, and at times nervously unstrung. He 
had slept ill, and spent his days in a half-conscious mood. 
More than once, as they walked together, Floxham had 
spoken to him amazed. 

' “ What’s up wi’ thee, lad ? ” he had said. “ Art dazed, 

or hast tha takken a turn an’ been on a spree ? ” 

One night, when they were together, Haworth had 
picked up from the floor a rough but intricate-looking 


54 


“HAWOBTH’S” 


drawing, and, on handing it to him, had been bewildered 
by his sudden change of expression. 

“ Is it aught of yours ? ” he had asked. 

a Yes,” the young fellow had answered ; “ it’s mine.” 

But, instead of replacing it in his pocket, he had torn it 
slowly into strips, and thrown it, piece by piece, into the 
fire, watching it as it burned. 

It was not Janey’s eminently practical observations 
which had stirred him to-night. He had been drifting 
toward this feverish crisis of feeling for months, and had 
contested its approach inch by inch. There were hours 
when he was overpowered by the force of what he battled 
against, and this was one of them. 

It was nearly midnight when he returned, and his 
mother met him at the door with an anxious look. It was 
a look he had seen upon her face all his life ; but its 
effect upon himself had never lessened from the day he 
had first recognized it, as a child. 

<£ 1 did not think you would wait for me,” he said. “ It 
is later than I thought.” 

“ I am not tired,” she answered. 

She had aged a little since her husband’s death, but 
otherwise she had not changed. She looked up at her son 
just as she had looked at his father, — watchfully, but say- 
ing little. 

“ Are you going to bed ? ” 

“ I am going upstairs,” he replied. But he did not say 
that he was going to bed. 

He bade her good-night shortly afterward, and went to 
his room. It was the one his father had used before his 
death, and the trunk containing his belongings stood in 
one corner of it. 

For a short time after entering the room he paced the 


“NOT FOR ONE HOUR. 


55 


floor restlessly and irregularly. Sometimes he walked 
quickly, sometimes slowly; once or twice he stopped 
short, checking himself as he veered toward the corner in 
which stood the unused trunk. 

“ I’m in a queer humor,” he said aloud. “ I’m thinking 
of it as if — as if it were a temptation to sin. Why should 
I?” 

He made a sudden resolute movement forward. He 
knelt down, and, turning the key in the lock, flung the 
trunk-lid backward. 

There was only one thing he wanted, and he knew 
where to find it. It lay buried at the bottom, under the 
unused garments, which gave forth a faint, damp odor as 
he moved them. When he rose from his knees he held 
the wooden case in his hand. After he had carried it to 
the table and opened it, and the model stood again before 
him- he sat down and stared at it with a numb sense of 
fascination. 

“ I thought I had seen the last of it,” he said ; “ and 
hrte it is.” 

Even as he spoke he felt his blood warm within him, 
aftd flush his cheek. His hand trembled as he put it forth 
to touch and move the frame-work before him. He felt 
as if it were a living creature. His eye kindled, and he 
bent forward. 

“ There’s something to be done with it yet,” he said. 
“ It’s not a blunder, I’ll swear ! ” 

He was hot with eagerness and excitement. The thing 
had haunted him day and night for weeks. He had 
struggled to shake off its influence, but in vain. He had 
told himself that the temptation to go back to it and pon- 
der over it was the working of a morbid taint in his 
blood. He had remembered the curse it had been, and 


56 


“ HAWORTH'S: 1 


had tried to think of that only ; but it had come back to 
him again and again, and — here it was. 

He spent an hour over it, and in the end his passionate 
eagerness had grown rather than diminished. He put his 
hand up to his forehead and brushed away drops of mois- 
ture, his throat was dry, and his eyes strained. 

“ There’s something to be brought out of it yet,” he 
said, as he had said before. “ It can be done, I swear ! ” 

The words had scarcely left his lips before he heard 
behind him a low, but sharp cry — a miserable ejaculation, 
half uttered. 

He had not heard the door open, nor the entering foot- 
steps ; but he knew what the cry meant the moment he 
heard it. He turned about and saw his mother standing 
on the threshold. If he had been detected in the com- 
mission of a crime, he could not have felt a sharper pang 
than he did. He almost staggered against the wall and 
did not utter a word. For a moment they looked at each 
other in a dead silence. Each wore in the eyes of the 
other a new aspect. She pointed to the model. 

“ It has come back,” she said. “ I knew it would.” 

The young fellow turned and looked at it a little stu- 
pidly. 

“ I — didn’t mean to hurt you with the sight of it,” he 
said. “ I took it out because — because ” 

She stopped him with a movement of her head. 

“ Yes, I know,” she said. “ You took it out because it 
has haunted you and tempted you. You could not with- 
stand it. It is in your blood.” 

He had known her through all his life as a patient 
creature, whose very pains had bent themselves and held 
themselves in check, lest they should seem for an hour to 
stand in the way of the end to be accomplished. That 


“NOT FOR ONE HOUR” 57 

she had, even in the deepest secrecy, rebelled against fate, 
he had never dreamed. 

She came to the table and struck the model aside with 
one angry blow. 

a Shall I tell you the truth ? ” she cried, panting. u 1 
have never believed in it for an hour — not for one 
hour ! ” 

He could only stammer out a few halting words. 

“ This is all new to me,” he said. “ I did not know ” 

“ No, you did not know,” she answered. “ How should 
you, when I lived my whole life to hide it % I have been 
stronger than you thought. I bore with him, as I should 
have borne with him if he had been maimed or blind — or 
worse than that. I did not hurt him — he had hurt enough. 
I knew what the end would be. He would have been a 
happy man and I a happy woman, if it had not been for 
that , and there it is again. I tell you,” passionately, 
“ there is a curse on it ! ” 

“ And you think,” he said, “ that it has fallen upon 
me ? ” 

She burst into wild tears. 

“ I have told myself it would,” she said. “ I have tried 
to prepare myself for its coming some day ; but I did not 
think it would show itself so soon as this.” 

“ I don’t know why,” he said slowly. “ I don’t know 
— what there is in me that I should think I might do 
what he left undone. There seems a kind of vanity in 
it.” 

“ It is not vanity,” she said ; “ it is worse. It is what 
has grown out of my misery and his. I tell you it is in 
your blood.” 

A flush rose to his face, and a stubborn look settled 
upon him. 


3 * 


58 


“ II A WORTH'S. 


“ Perhaps it is,” he answered. “ I have told myself 
that, too.” 

She held her closed hand upon her heart, as if to crush 
down its passionate heavings. 

“ Begin as he began,” she cried, “ and the end will 
come to you as it came to him. Give it up now — now ! ” 

“ Give it up ! ” he repeated after her. 

“ Give it up,” she answered, “ or give up your whole 
life, your youth, your hope, — all that belongs to it.” 

She held out her hands to him in a wild, unconsciously 
theatrical gesture. The whole scene had been theatrical 
through its very incongruousness, and Murdoch had seen 
this vaguely, and been more shaken by it than anything 
else. 

Before she knew what he meant to do, he approached 
the table, and replaced the model in its box, the touch of 
stubborn desperateness on him yet. He carried the case 
back to the trunk, and shut it in once more. 

“ I’ll let it rest a while,” he said ; “ I’ll promise you 
that. If it is ever to be finished by me, the time will 
come when it will see the light again, in spite of us 
both.” 


CHAPTER X. 


CHRISTIAN MURDOCH. 

As he was turning into the gate of the Works the next 
morning, a little lad touched him upon the elbow. 

“ Mester,” he said, “ sithee, Mester, — stop a bit.” 

He was out of breath, as if he had been running, and 
he held in his hand a slip of paper. 

“ I thowt I should na ketch thee,” he said, “ tha’rt so 
long-legged. A woman sent thee that,” and he gave him 
the slip of paper. 

Murdoch opened and read the words written upon it. 

“ If you are Stephen Murdoch’s son, I must see you. Come with 
the child.” 

There was no signature — only these words, written ir- 
regularly and weakly. He had never met with an ad- 
venture in his life, and this was like an episode in a 
romance. 

“ If you are Stephen Murdoch’s son, I must see you.” 

He could scarcely realize that he was standing in the 
narrow, up-hill street, jostled by the hands shouting and 
laughing as they streamed past him through the gates to 
their work. 

And yet, somehow he found himself taking it more 
coolly than seemed exactly natural. This morning, emo- 
tion and event appeared less startling than they would 


60 


“ HA WORTH'S. 


have done even the day before. The strange scene of 
the past night had, in a manner, prepared him for any- 
thing which might happen. 

“ Who sent it ? ” he asked of the boy. 

“ Th’ woman as lodges i’ our house. She’s been theer 
three days, an’ she’s getten to th’ last, mother says. Con 
tha coom ? She’s promist me a shillin’ if I browt thee.” 

“Wait here a minute,” said Murdoch. 

He passed into the works and went to Floxham. 

“ I’ve had a message that calls me away,” he said. 
“ If you can spare me for an hour ” 

“ I’ll mak’ out,” said the engineer. 

The lad at the gate looked up with an encouraging grin 
when he saw his charge returning. 

“ I’d loike to mak’ th’ shillin’,” he said. 

Murdoch followed him in silence. He was thinking of 
what was going to happen to himself scarcely as much as 
of the dead man in whose name he was called upon. He 
was brought near to him again as if it were by a fate. 
“If you are Stephen Murdoch’s son,” had moved him 
strongly. 

Their destination was soon reached. It was a house in 
a narrow but respectable street occupied chiefly by a 
decent class of workmen and their families. A week 
before he had seen in the window of this same house a 
card bearing the legend “ Lodgings to Let,” and now it 
was gone. A clean, motherly woman opened the door 
for them. 

“ Tha’st earnt thy shillin’, has tha, tha young nowt ? ” 
she said to the lad, with friendly severity. “ Coom in, 
Mester. I wur feart he’d get off on some of his mar- 
locks an’ forget aw about th’ paper. She’s i’ a bad way, 
poor lady, an’ th’ lass is na o’ mich use. Coom up-stairs.” 


CHRISTIAN MURDOCH. 


61 


She led the way to the second floor, and her knock 
being answered by a voice inside, she opened the door. 
The room was comfortable and of good size, a fire burned 
on the grate, and before it sat a girl with her hands 
clasped upon her knee. 

She was a girl of nineteen, dark of face and slight of 
figure to thinness. When she turned her head slowly to 
look at him, Murdoch was struck at once with the pecu^ 
liar steadiness of her large black eyes. 

“ She is asleep,” she said in a low, cold voice. 

There was a sound as of movement in the bed. 

“ I am awake,” some one said. “ If it is Stephen Mur- 
doch’s son, let him come here.” 

Murdoch went to the bedside and stood looking down 
at the woman who returned his gaze. She was a woman 
whose last hours upon earth were passing rapidly. Her 
beauty was now only something terrible to see; her 
breath came fast and short ; her eyes met his with a look 
of anguish. 

“ Send the girl away,” she said to him. 

Low as her voice was, the girl heard it. She rose with- 
out turning to right or left and went out of the room. 

Until the door closed the woman still lay looking up 
into her visitor’s face, but as soon as it was shut she 
spoke laboriously. 

“ What is your name ? ” she asked. 

He told her. 

“ You are like your father,” she said, and then closed 
her eyes and lay so for a moment. “ It is a mad thing I 
am doing,” she said, knitting her brows with weak fret- 
fulness, and still lying with closed eyes. “I — I do not 
know — why I should have done it— only that it is the last 
thing. It is not that I am fond of the girl — or that she 


62 


“ II A WORTH'S.' 


is fond of me,” she opened her eyes with a start. “ Is the 
door shut ?” she said. “ Keep her out of the room.” 

“ She is not here,” he answered, “ and the door is 
closed.” 

The sight of his face seemed to help her to recover 
herself. 

“ What am I eaying ? ” she said. “ I have not told you 
who I am.” 

“ No,” he replied, “ not yet.” 

“ My name was Janet Murdoch,” she said. “ I was 
your father’s cousin. Once he was very fond of me.” 

She drew from under her pillow a few old letters. 

“ Look at them,” she said ; “ he wrote them.” 

But he only glanced at the superscription and laid 
them down again. 

“ I did not know,” she panted, “ that he was dead. I 
hoped he would be here. I knew that he must have 
lived a quiet life. I always thought of him as living here 
in the old way.” 

“ He was away from here for thirty years,” said Mur- 
doch. “ He only came back to die.” 

“ He ! ” she said, “ I never thought of that. It — 
seems very strange. I could not imagine his going from 
place to place — or living a busy life — or suffering much. 
He was so simple and so quiet.” 

“I thought of him,” she went on, “ because he was a 
good man — a good man — and there was no one else in the 
world. As the end came I grew restless — I wanted to — 
to try ” 

But there her eyes closed and she forgot herself again. 

“What was it you wanted to try to do?” he asked 
gently. 

She roused herself, as before, with a start. 


CHRISTIAN MURDOCH. 


63 


“ To try,” she said, — “ to try to do something for the 
girl.” 

He did not understand what she meant until she had 
dragged herself up upon the pillow and leaned forward 
touching him with her hand; she had gathered all her 
strength for the effort. 

“ I am an outcast,” she said, — “ an outcast ! ” 

The simple and bare words were so terrible that he 
could scarcely bear them, but he controlled himself by a 
strong effort. 

A faint color crept up on her cheek. 

“ You don’t understand,” she said. 

“ Yes,” he answered slowly, “ I think I do.” 

She fell back upon her pillows. 

“ I wont tell you the whole story,” she said. “ It is an 
ugly one, and she will be ready enough with it when her 
turn comes. She has understood all her life. She has 
never been a child. She seemed to fasten her eyes upon 
me from the hour of her birth, and I have felt them ever 
since. Keep her away,” with a shudder. “ Don’t let her 
come in.” 

A sudden passion of excitement seized upon her. 

“ I don’t know why I should care,” she cried. “ There 
is no reason why she should not live as I have lived — but 
she will not — she will not. I have reached the end and 
she knows it. She sits and looks on and says nothing, 
but her eyes force me to speak. They forced me to come 
here — to try — to make a last effort. If Stephen Murdoch 
had lived ” 

She stopped a moment. 

“ You are a poor man,” she said. 

“ Yes,” he answered. “ I am a mechanic.” 

u Then — you cannot — do it.” 


64 


“ HA WORTH'S: 


She spoke helplessly, wildly. 

“ There is nothing to be done. There is no one else. 
She will be all alone.” 

Then he comprehended her meaning fully. 

“ No,” he said, “ I am not so poor as that. 1 am not a 
poorer man than my father was, and I can do what he 
would have done had he lived. My mother will care for 
the girl, if that is what you wish.” 

“ What I wish ! ” she echoed. “ I wish for nothing — 
but I must do something for her — before — before — 
before ” 

She broke off, but began again. 

“ You are like your father. You make things seem 
simple. You speak as if you were undertaking nothing.” 

“ It is not much to do,” he answered, “ and we could 
not do less. I will go to my mother and tell her that she 
is needed here. She will come to you.” 

She turned her eyes on him in terror. 

“ You think,” she whispered, “ that I shall die soon — 
soon ! ” 

He did not answer her. He could not. She wrung 
her hands and dashed them open upon the bed, panting. 

“ Oh,” she cried, “ my God ! It is over ! I have come 
to the end of it — the end ! To have only one life — and to 
have done with it — and lie here ! To have lived — and 
loved — and triumphed, and to know it is over ! One may 
defy all the rest, the whole world, but not this. It is 
done ! ” 

Then she turned to him again, desperately. 

“ Go to your mother,” she said. “ Tell her to come. I 
want some one in the room with me. I wont be left alone 
with her. I cannot bear it.” 

On going out he found the girl sitting at the head of 


CHRISTIAN MURDOCH. 


65 


the stairs. She rose and stood aside to let him pass, look- 
ing at him unflinchingly. 

“ Are you coming back ? ” she demanded. 

“ Yes,” he answered, “ I am coming back.” 

In half an hour he re-ascended the staircase, bringing 
his mother with him. When they entered the room in 
which the dying woman lay, Mrs. Murdoch went to the 
bed and bent over her. 

“ My son has brought me to do what I can for you,” 
she said, “ and to tell you that he will keep his promise.” 

The woman looked up. For a moment it seemed that 
she had forgotten. A change had come upon her even 
in the intervening half-hour. 

“ His promise,” she said. “ Yes, he will keep it.” 

At midnight she died. Mother and son were in the 
room, the girl sat in a chair at the bedside. Her hands 
were clasped upon her knee ; she sat without motion. At 
a few minutes before the stroke of twelve, the woman 
awoke from the heavy sleep in which she had lain. She 
awoke with a start and a cry, and lay staring at the girl, 
whose steady eyes were fixed upon her. Her lips moved, 
and at last she spoke. 

“ Forgive me ! ” she cried. “ Forgive me ! ” 

Murdoch and his mother rose, but the girl did not 
stir. 

“ For what ? ” she asked. 

“ For — ” panted the woman, “ for ” 

But the sentence remained unfinished. The girl did 
not utter a word. She sat looking at the dying woman in 
silence — only looking at her, not once moving her eyes 
from the face which, a moment later, was merely a mask 
of stone which lay upon the pillow, gazing back at her 
with a fixed stare. 


CHAPTER XL 


MISS FFRENCH RETURNS. 

They took the girl home with them, and three days 
later the Ffrenchs returned. They came entirely un- 
heralded, and it was Janey who brought the news of their 
arrival to the Works. 

“ They’ve coom,” she said, in passing Murdoch on her 
way to her father. “ Mester Ffrench an’ her. They rode 
through th’ town this mornin’ i’ a kerridge. Nobody 
knowed about it till they seed ’em.” 

The news was the principal topic of conversation 
through the day, and the comments made were numerous 
and varied. The most general opinions were that Ffrench 
was in a “ tight place,” or had “ getten some crank i’ 
hond.” 

“ He’s noan fond enow o’ th’ place to ha’ coom back 
fur nowt,” said Floxham. “ He’s a bit harder up than 
common, that’s it.” 

In the course of the morning Haworth came in. Mur- 
doch was struck with his unsettled and restless air ; he 
came in awkwardly, and looking as if he had something 
to say, but though he loitered about some time, he did not 
say it. 

“ Come up to the house to-night,” he broke out at last. 
“ I want company.” 

It occurred to Murdoch that he wished to say more, 


MISS FFRENCH RETURNS. 


67 


but, after lingering for a few minutes, he went away. 
As he crossed the threshold, however, he paused un- 
easily. 

“ I say,” he said, “ Ffrench has come back.” 

“ So I heard,” Murdoch answered. 

When he presented himself at the house in the even- 
ing, Haworth was alone as usual. Wines were on the 
table, and he seemed to have drunk deeply. He was 
flushed, and showed still the touch of uneasiness and ex- 
citement he had betrayed in the morning. 

“ I’m glad you’ve come,” he said. “ I’m out of sorts — 
or something.” 

He ended with a short laugh, and turned about to pour 
out a glass of wine. In doing so his hand trembled so 
that a few drops fell upon it. He shook them off angrily. 

“ What’s up with me ? ” he said. 

He drained the glass at a draught, and filled it again. 

“ I saw Ffrench to-day,” he said. “ I saw them both.” 

“ Both ! ” repeated Murdoch, wondering at him. 

“ Yes. She is with him.” 

“ She ! ” and then remembering the episode of the 
handkerchief, he added, rather slowly, “ You mean Miss 
Ffrench ? ” 

Haworth nodded. 

He was pushing his glass to and fro with shaking 
hands, his voice was hoarse and uncertain. 

“ I passed the carriage on the road,” he said, “ and 
Ffrench stopped it to speak to me. He’s not much al- 
tered. I never saw her before. She’s a woman now — 
and a handsome woman, by George ! ” 

The last words broke from him as if he could not con- 
trol them. He looked up at Murdoch, and as their eyes 
met he seemed to let himself loose. 


“ HAWORTH'S: 


“ I may as well make a clean breast of it,” he said. 
“ I’m — I’m hard hit. I’m hard hit.” 

Murdoch flinched. He would rather not have heard 
the rest. He had had emotion enough during the last 
few days, and this was of a kind so novel that he was 
overwhelmed by it. But Haworth went on. 

“ It’s a queer thing,” he said. “ I can’t quite make it 
out. I — I feel as if I must talk — about it — and yet 
there’s naught to say. I’ve seen a woman that’s — that’s 
taken hold on me.” 

He passed his hands across his lips, which were parched 
and stiff. 

“ You know the kind of a fellow I’ve been,” he said. 
“ I’ve known women enough, and too many ; but there’s 
never been one like this. There’s always been plenty 
like the rest. I sat and stared at this one like a block- 
head. She set me trembling. It came over me all at 
once. I don’t know what Ffrench thought. I said to 
myself, £ Here’s the first woman that ever held me back.’ 
She’s one of your high kind, that’s hard to get nigh. 
She’s got a way to set a man mad. She’ll be hard to get 
at, by George ! ” 

Murdoch felt his pulse start. The man’s emotion had 
communicated itself to him, so far at least. 

“ I don’t know much of women,” he said. “ I’ve not 
been thrown among them ; I ” 

“ No,” said Haworth roughly, “ they’re not in your line, 
lad. If they were, happen I shouldn’t be so ready to 
speak out.” 

Then he began and told his story more minutely, relating 
how, as he drove to the Works, he had met the carriage, 
and Ffrench had caught sight of him and ordered the ser- 
vant to stop j how he had presented his daughter, and 


MISS FFRENGH RETURNS. 


69 


spoken as if she had heard of him often before ; how she 
had smiled a little, but had said nothing. 

“ She’s got a way which makes a man feel as if she was 
keeping something back, and sets him to wondering what 
it is. She’s not likely to be forgot soon ; she gives a chap 
something to think over.” 

He talked fast and heatedly, and sometimes seemed to 
lose himself. How and then he stopped, and sat brooding 
a moment in silence, and then roused himself with a start, 
and drank more wine and grew more flushed and excited. 
After one of these fitful reveries, he broke out afresh. 

“ I — wonder what folk’ll say to her of me. They wont 
give me an over good name, I’ll warrant. What a fool 

I’ve been! What a d fool I’ve been all my life! 

Let them say what they like. They’ll make me black 
enough ; but there is plenty would like to stand in Jem 
Haworth’s shoes. I’ve never been beat yet. I’ve stood 
up and held my own, — and women like that. And as to 
th’ name,” with rough banter, “it’s not chaps like you 
they fancy, after all.” 

“ As to that,” said Murdoch coldly, “ I’ve told you I 
know nothing of women.” 

1 He felt restive without knowing why. He was glad 
when he could free himself and get out into the fresh 
night air ; it seemed all the fresher after the atmosphere 
he had breathed in-doors. 

The night was bright and mild. After cold, un-spring- 
like weather had come an ephemeral balminess. The 
moon was at full, and he stepped across the threshold into 
a light as clear as day. 

He walked rapidly, scarcely noting the road he passed 
over until he had reached the house which stood alone 
among its trees, — the house Haworth had pointed out a 


70 


“ HA WORTH'S. 


few months before. It was lighted now, and its lights 
attracted his attention. 

“ It’s a brighter-looking place than it was then,” he said. 

He never afterward could exactly recall how it was that 
at this moment he started, turned, and for a breath’s space 
came to a full stop. 

He had passed out of the shadow of the high boundary 
wall into the broad moonlight which flooded the gate-way. 
The iron gates were open, and a white figure stood in the 
light — the figure of a tall young woman who did not move. 

He was so near that her dress almost touched him. In 
another moment he was hurrying along the road again, 
not having spoken, and scarcely understanding the mo- 
mentary shock he had received. 

“ That,” he said to himself, — “ that was she ! ” 

When he reached home and opened the door of the lit' 
tie parlor, Christian Murdoch was sitting alone by the 
dying fire in the grate. She turned and looked at him. 

“ Something,” she said, “ has happened to you. What 
is it % ” 

“ I don’t know,” he answered, “ that anything has hap- 
pened to me — anything of importance.” 

She turned to the fire again and sat gazing at it, rubbing 
the back of one hand slowly with the palm of the other, as 
it lay on her knee. 

“ Something has happened to me” she said. “ To-day 
I have seen some one I know.” 

“ Some one you know \ ” he echoed. “ Here ? ” 

She nodded her head. 

“ Some one I know,” she repeated, “ though I do not 
know her name. I should like to know it.” 

“ Her name,” he said. “ Then it is a woman ? ” 


MM3 FFRENCH RETURNS. 71 

“ Yes, a woman — a young woman. I saw her abroad — 
four — five times.” 

She began to check off the number of times on her fin- 
gers. 

“ In Florence once,” she said. “ In Munich twice ; in 
Paris — yes, in Paris twice again.” 

“ When and how \ ” he asked. 

As he spoke, he thought of the unruffled serenity of the 
face he had just seen. 

“ Years ago, the first time,” she answered, without the 
least change of tone, “ in a church in Florence. I went 
in because I was wet and cold and hungry, and it was 
light and warm there. I was a little thing, and left to 
ramble in the streets. I liked the streets better than my 
mother’s room. I was standing in the church, looking at 
the people and trying to feel warm, when a girl came in 
with a servant. She was handsome and well dressed, and 
looked almost like a woman. When she saw me, she 
laughed. I was such a little thing, and so draggled and 
forlorn. That was why she laughed. The next year I 
saw her again, at Munich. Her room was across the 
street and opposite mine, and she sat at the window, amus- 
ing herself by playing with her dog and staring at me. 
She had forgotten me, but I had not forgotten her; and 
she laughed at me again. In Paris it was the same thing. 
Our windows were opposite each other again. It was five 
years after, but that time she knew me, though she pre- 
tended she did not. She drove past the house to-day, and 
I saw her. I should like to know her name.” 

“ I think I can tell you what it is,” he said. “ She is a 
Miss Ffrench. Her father is a Broxton man. They have 
a place here.” 

“ Have they % ” she asked. “ Will they live here ? ” 


72 


“ HA WORTH'S. 


u I believe so,” be answered. 

She sat for a moment, rubbing her hand slowly as be- 
fore, and then she spoke. 

“ So much the worse,” she said, — “ so much the worse 
for me.” 

She went up to her room when she left him. It was a 
little room in the second story, and she had become fond 
of it. She often sat alone there. She had been sitting 
at its window when Rachel Ffrench had driven by in the 
afternoon. The window was still open she saw as she 
entered, and a gust of wind passing through it had scat- 
tered several light articles about the floor. She went to 
pick them up. They were principally loose papers, and 
as she bent to raise the first one she discovered that it was 
yellow with age and covered with a rough drawing of 
some mechanical appliance. Another and another pre- 
sented the same plan — drawn again and again, elaborately 
and with great pains at times, and then hastily as if some 
new thought had suggested itself. On several were writ- 
ten dates, and on others a few words. 

She was endeavoring to decipher some of these faintly 
written words when a fresh gust of rising wind rushed past 
her as she stood, and immediately there fell upon her ear a 
slight ghostly rustle. Near her was a small unused closet 
whose door had been thrown open, and as she turned 
toward it there fluttered from one of the shelves a sheet 
of paper yellower than the rest. She picked it up and 
read the words written upon the back of the drawing. 
They had been written twenty-six years before. 

“ To-day the child was born. It is a boy. By the time 
he is a year old my work will be done.” 

The girl’s heart began to beat quickly. The papers 
rustled again, and a kind of fear took possession of her. 


MISS FFRENGE RETURNS. 73 

“ He wrote it,” she said aloud. “ The man who is dead 
— who is dead ; and it was not finished at all.” 

She closed the window, eager to shut out the wind ; 
then she closed the door and went back to the papers. 
Her fancies concerning Stephen Murdoch had taken very 
definite shape from the first. She knew two things of 
him ; that he had been gentle and unworldly, and that 
he had cherished throughout his life a hope which had 
eluded him until death had come between him and his 
patient and unflagging labor. 

The sight of the yellow faded papers moved her to 
powerful feeling. She had never had a friend ; she had 
stood alone from her earliest childhood, and here was a 
creature who had been desolate too — who must have been 
desolate, since he had been impelled to write the simple 
outcome of his thoughts again and again upon the paper 
he wrought on, as if no human being had been near to 
hear. It was this which touched her most of all. There 
was scarcely a sheet upon which some few words were 
not written. Each new plan bore its date, and some 
hopeful or weary thought. He had been tired often, but 
never faithless to his belief. The end was never very far 
off. A few days, one more touch, would bring it, — and 
then he had forgotten all the past. 

“ I can afford to forget it,” he said once. “ It only 
seems strange now that it should have lasted so long 
when so few steps remain to be taken.” 

These words had been written on his leaving America. 
He was ready for his departure. They were the last 
record. When she had read them, Christian pushed the 
papers away and sat gazing into space with dilated eyes. 

“ He died,” she said. “He is dead. Nothing can 
bring him back ; and it is forgotten.” 

4 


CHAPTER XII. 


GRANNY DIXON. 

The next time Janey brought her father's dinner to the 
Yard she sought out Murdoch in a dejected mood. She 
found him reading over his lunch in the sunshine, and 
she sat down opposite to him, folding her arms on her 
lap. 

“ We’re i’ trouble again at our house,” she said. 
“ We’re alius i’ trouble. If it is na one thing, it’s an- 
other.” 

Murdoch shut his book and leaned back upon his pile 
of lumber to listen. He always listened. 

“ What is it this time ? ” 

“ This toime ? ” querulously. “ This is th’ worst o’ th’ 
lot. Granny Dixon’s come back.” 

“ Granny Dixon ? ” 

Janey shook her head. 

“Tha knows nowt about her,” she said. “I nivver 
towd thee nowt. She’s my feyther’s grandmother an’ 
she’s ower ninety years owd, an’ she’s getten money. If 
it wur na fur that no one ud stond her, but” — with a 
sigh — “ foak conna turn away brass.” 

Having relieved herself of this sentiment she plunged 
into the subject with fresh asperity. 

“ Theer’s no knowin’ how to tak’ her,” she said. “ Yo’ 
mun shout at th’ top o’ yore voice to mak’ her hear. An’ 


GRANNY DIXON. 


75 


she wunnot let nowt go by. She mun hear aw as is goin’. 
She’s out wi’ Mester Hixon at th’ chapel because she says 
she conna hear him an’ he does it a-purpose. When she 
wur out wi’ ivverybody else she used to say she wur goin’ 
to leave her brass to him, an’ she invited him to tea 
ivvery neet fur a week, an’ had him set by her chair an’ 
talk. It wur summer toime an’ I’ve seed him set an’ 
shout wi’ th’ sweat a-pourin’ down his face an’ his neck- 
tie aw o’ one soide, an’ at th’ eend o’ a week he had a 
quinsy, as wur nigh bein’ th’ eend o’ him. An’ she nivver 
forgive him. She said as he wur an impident chap as 
thowt hissen too good fur his betters.” 

Murdoch expressed his sympathy promptly. 

“1 wish tha’d coom up an’ talk to her some day thysen,” 
said Janey. “ It ud rest us a bit,” candidly. “ Yo’n get- 
ten th’ kind o’ voice to mak’ folk hear, though yo’ dunnot 
speak so loud, an’ if yo’ get close up to her ear an’ say 
things slow, vo’d get used to it i’ toime.” 

“ I’ll come some day,” answered Murdoch, speculating 
with some doubt as to the possible result of the visit. 

Her mind relieved, Janey rose to take her departure. 
Suddenly, however, a new idea presented itself to her 
active mind. 

“ Has tha seen Miss Ffrench yet? ” she asked. 

u Yes,” he answered. 

“ What does tha think on her ? ” 

He picked up his book and re-opened it. 

Ci I only saw her for an instant,” he said. <( I hadn’t 
time to think anything.” 

On his way from his work a few days later, he stopped 
at the Briarley cottage. It was swept and garnished ; 
there were no traces of the children about. Before he 
reached the house, there had been borne to him the sound 


76 “ HA WORTH] 8” 

of a voice reading at its highest and shrillest pitch, and 
he had recognized it as Janey ’s. 

As he entered, that yonng person rose panting from hor 
seat, in her eagerness almost dropping the graphically 
illustrated paper she held in her hand. 

“ Eh ! ” she exclaimed. “ I am glad to see thee ! I 
could na ha’ stood it mich longer. She would ha’ me read 
the k To-be-continyerd ’ one, an’ I’ve bin at it nigh an 
hour.” 

Granny Dixon turned on her sharply. 

“ What art tha stoppin’ fur ? ” she demanded. “ What’s 
th’ matter wi’ thee ? ” 

Murdoch gave a slight start. The sound was so tre- 
mendous that it seemed almost impossible that it should 
proceed from the small and shriveled figure in the arm- 
chair. 

“ What art tha stoppin’ fur ? ” she repeated. “ Get on 
wi’ thee.” 

Janey drew near and spoke in her ear. 

“ It’s Mester Murdoch,” she proclaimed ; “ him as I 
towd yo’ on.” 

The little bent figure turned slowly and Murdoch felt 
himself transfixed by the gaze of a pair of large keen 
eyes. They had been handsome eyes half a century be- 
fore, and the wrinkled and seamed face had had its come- 
liness too. 

“ Tha said he wur a workin’ mon,” she cried, after a 
pause. “ What did tha tell me that tlieer fur % ” 

“ He is a workin’ mon,” said Janey. “ He’s getten his 
work-cloas on now. Does na tha see ’em ? ” 

“ Cloas ! ” announced the Voice again. “ Cloas i’deed ! 
A mon is na made out o’ cloas. I’ve seed workin’ men 
afore i’ my day, an’ I know ’em.” 


GRANNY DIXON. 


77 


Then she extended her hand, crooking the forefinger 
like a claw, in a beckoning gesture. 

u Coom tha here,” she commanded, “ an set thysen down 
to talk to me.” 

She gave the order in the manner of a female potentate, 
and Murdoch obeyed her with a sense of overpowering 
fascination. 

“ Wheer art tha fro’ ? ” she demanded. 

He made his reply, “From America,” as distinct as 
possible, and was relieved to find that it reached her at 
once. 

“ ’Merica ? ” she repeated. “ I’ve heerd o’ ’Merica often 
enow. That’s wheer th’ blacks live, an’ th’ Indians. I 
knowed a young chap as went theer, an’ th’ Indians scalped 
him. He went theer because I would na ha’ him. It wur 
when I wur a lass.” 

She paused a moment and then said the last words over 
again, nodding her head with a touch of grim satisfac- 
tion. 

“ He went theer because I would na ha’ him. It wur 
when I wur a lass.” 

He was watching her so intently that he was quite 
startled a second time when she turned her eyes upon him 
and spoke again, still nodding. 

“ I wur a han’some lass,” she said. “ I wur a han’some 
lass — seventy year’ ago.” 

It was quite plain that she had been. The thing which 
was least pleasant about her now was a certain dead and 
withered suggestion of a beauty of a not altogether sinless 
order. 

The recollection of the fact seemed to enliven her so 
far that she was inspired to conducting the greater part of 
the conversation herself. Her voice grew louder and 


78 


“ HAWORTH'S” 


louder, a dull red began to show itself on her cheeks, and 
her eyes sparkled. She had been “ a han’some lass, seventy 
year’ ago, an’ had had her day — as theer wur dead folk 
could tell.” 

“ She’ll go on i’ that rood aw neet, if summat dunnot 
ytak’ her off it,” said Janey. “ She loikes to talk about 
that theer better than owt else.” 

But something did happen “ to tak’ her off it.” 

“Tha’st getten some reason i’ thee,” she announeed. 
“ Tha does na oppen tha mouth as if tha wanted to swally 
folk when tha says what tha’st getten to say. Theer’s no 
workin’ men’s ways about thee — cloas or no cloas.” 

“ That’s th’ way she goes on,” said Janey. “ She canna 
bide folk to look soft when they’re shoutin’ to her. That 
was one o’ th’ things she had agen Mester Hixon. She 
said he getten so red i’ th’ face it put her out o’ pa- 
tience.” 

“ I loike a mon as is na a foo’,” proclaimed Granny 
Dixon. But there her voice changed and grew sharp and 
tremulous. “Wheer’s that flower?” she cried. “Who’s 
getten it ? ” 

Janey turned toward the door and uttered a shrill little 
cry of excitement. 

“It’s Miss Ffrench,” she said. “She’s — she’s stondin’ 
at th’ door.” 

It would have been impossible to judge from her ex- 
pression how long she had been there. She stood upon 
the threshold with a faint smile on her lips, and spoke to 
Janey. 

“ I want to see your mother,” she said. 

“ I’ll — I’ll go and tell her,” the child faltered. “ Will 
yo’ coom in ? ” 

She hesitated a second and then came in. Murdoch 


GRANNY DIXON. 


79 


had arisen. She did not seem to see him as she passed 
before him to reach the chair in which she sat down. In 
fact she expressed scarcely a shadow of recognition of her 
surroundings. But upon Granny Dixon had fallen a sud- 
den feverish tremor. 

“Who did she say yo’ wur?” she cried. “I did na 
hear her.” 

The visitor turned and confronted her. 

“ I am Rachel Ffrench,” she answered in a clear, high 
voice. 

The dull red deepened upon the old woman’s cheeks, 
and her eyes gained new fire. 

“ Yo’re a good un to mak’ a body hear,” she said. “ An’ 
I know yo’.” 

Miss Ffrench made no reply. She smiled incredulously 
at the fire. 

The old woman moved restlessly. 

“Ay, but I do,” she cried. “I know yo’. Yo’re 
Ffrench fro’ head to foot. Wheer did yo’ get that ? ” 

She was pointing to a flower at Miss Ffrench’s throat — 
a white, strongly fragrant, hot- house flower. Miss Ffrench 
cast a downward glance at it. 

“ There are plenty to be had,” she said. “ I got it from 
home.” 

“I’ve seen ’em before,” said Granny Dixon. “ He 
used to wear ’em i’ his button-hole.” 

Miss Ffrench made no reply and she went on, her tones 
increasing in volume with her excitement. 

“ I’m talkin’ o’ Will Ffrench,” she said. “ He wur thy 
gran’feyther. He wur dead afore yo’ wur born.” 

Miss Ffrench seemed scarcely interested, but Granny 
Dixon had not finished. 


80 


“ HA WORTH'S. 


“ He wur a bad un ! ” she cried. “ He wur a devil \ 
He wur a devil out an’ out. I knowed him an’ he knowed 
me.” 

Then she bent forward and touched Miss Ffrench’s 
arm. 

“ Theer wur na a worse un nor a bigger devil nowheer,” 
she said. “ An’ yo’re th’ very moral on him.” 

Miss Ffrench got up and turned toward the door to 
speak to Mrs. Briarley, who that moment arrived in great 
haste carrying the baby, out of breath, and stumbling in 
her tremor at receiving gentle folk company. 

“ Your visitor has been talking to me,” she remarked, 
her little smile showing itself again. “ She says my grand- 
father was a devil.” 

She answered all Mrs. Briarley’s terrified apologies with 
the same little smile. She had been passing by and had 
remembered that the housekeeper needed assistance in 
some matter and it had occurred to her to come in. That 
was all, and having explained herself, she went away as 
she had come. 

“Eh!” fretted Mrs. Briarley, “to think o’ that theer 
owd besom talkin’ i’ that rood to a lady. That’s alius th’ 
way wi’ her. She’d mak’ trouble anywheer. She made 
trouble enow when she wur young. She wur na no better 
than she should be then, an’ she’s nowt so mich better 
now.” 

“What’s that tha’rt saying?” demanded the Voice. 
“ A noice way that wur fur a lady to go out wi’out so mich 
as sayin’ good-day to a body. She’s as loike him as two 
peas — an’ he wur a devil. Here,” to Murdoch, “ pick up 
that theer flower she’s dropped.” 

Murdoch turned to the place she pointed out. The 



yo’re th’ very moral on him 

















































GRANNY DIXON 


81 


white flower lay upon the flagged floor He picked it up 
and handed it to her with a vague recognition of the pow- 
erfulness of its fragrance. She took it and sat mumbling 
over it. 

' “ It’s th’ very same,” she muttered. “He used to wear 

’em i’ his button-hole when he coom. An’ she’s th’ very 
moral on him.” 

4 * 


CHAPTER XIII. 


MR. FFRENCH VISITS THE WORKS. 

There were few men in Broxton or the country sur- 
rounding it who were better known than Gerard Ffrench. 
In the first place, he belonged, as it were, to Broxton, and 
his family for several generations back had belonged to 
it. His great-grandfather had come to the place a rich 
man and had built a huge house outside the village, and 
as the village had become a town the Ffrenchs had held 
their heads high. They had confined themselves to Brox- 
ton until Gerard Ffrench took his place. They had spent 
their lives there and their money. Those who lived to re- 
member the youth and manhood of the present Ffrencli’s 
father had, like Granny Dixon, their stories to tell. His 
son, however, was a man of a different mold. There 
were no evil stories of him. He was a well-bred and 
agreeable person and lived a refined life. But he was a 
man with tastes which scarcely belonged to his degree. 

“ I ought to have been born in the lower classes and 
have had my way to make,” he had been heard to say. 

Unfortunately, however, he had been born a gentleman 
of leisure and educated as one. But this did not prevent 
him from indulging in his proclivities. He had made 
more than one wild business venture which had electri- 
fied his neighbors. Once he had been on the verge of a 
great success and again he had overstepped the verge of a 


MR. FFRENCTI VISITS THE WORKS. 


83 


great loss. He had lost money, but he had never lost 
confidence in his business ability. 

“ I have gained experience,” he said. “ I shall know 
better next time.” 

His wife had died early and his daughter had spent her 
girlhood with a relative abroad. She had developed into 
beauty so faultless that it had been said that its order be- 
longed rather to the world of pedestals and catalogues 
than to ordinary young womanhood. 

But the truth was that she was not an ordinary young 
woman at all. 

“ I suppose,” she said at dinner on the evening of her 
visit to the Briarley cottage, — “I suppose these work- 
people are very radical in their views.” 

“ Why ? ” asked her father. 

“I went into a cottage this afternoon and found a 
young workman there in his working clothes, and instead 
of leaving the room he remained in it as if that was the 
most natural thing to do. It struck me that he must be- 
long to the class of people we read of.” 

“ I don’t know much of the political state of affairs 
now,” said Mr. Ffrench. “ Some of these fellows are 
always bad enough, and this Haworth rose from the 
ranks. He was a foundry lad himself.” 

“ I met Mr. Haworth, too,” said Miss Ffrench. “ He 
stopped in the street to stand looking after the carriage. 
He is a very big person.” 

“ He is a very successful fellow,” with something like 
a sigh. “ A man who has made of himself what he has 
through sheer power of will and business capacity is a 
genius.” 

“What has he made of himself?” inquired Miss 
Ffrench. 


84 


HA WORTH'S.' 


“ Well,” replied her father, “ the man is actually a 
millionaire. He is at the head of his branch of the 
trade ; he leads the other manufacturers ; he is a kind of 
king in the place. People may ignore him if they choose. 
He does not care, and there is no reason why he should.” 

Mr. Ffrench became rather excited. He flushed and 
spoke uneasily. 

“There are plenty of gentlemen,” he said. “We have 
gentlemen enough and to spare, but we have few men 
who can make a path through the world for themselves as 
he has done. For my part, I admire the man. He has 
the kind of force which moves me to admiration.” 

“I dare say,” said Miss Ffrench, slowly, “that you 
would have admired the young workman I saw. It 
struck me at the time that you would.” 

“ By the bye,” her father asked with a new interest, 
“ what kind of a young fellow was he % Perhaps it was 
the young fellow who is half American and ” 

“ He did not look like an Englishman,” she interrupted. 
“ He was too dark and tall and unconscious of himself, in 
spite of his awkwardness. He did not know that he was 
out of place.” 

“ I have no doubt it was this Murdoch. He is a pecu- 
liar fellow, and I am as much interested in him as in Ha- 
worth. His father was a Lancashire man, — a half-crazy 
inventor who died leaving an unfinished model which was 
to have made his fortune. I have heard a great deal of 
the son. 1 wish 1 had seen him.” 

Bacliel Ffrench made no reply. She had heard this 
kind of thing before. There had been a young man from 
Cumberland who had been on the point of inventing a 
new propelling power, but had, somehow or other, not 
done it; there had been a machinist from Manchester 


MR. FFRENCH VISITS THE WORKS 


85 


who had created an entirely new order of loom — which 
had not worked ; and there had been half a dozen smaller 
lights whose inventions, though less involved, would still 
have made fortunes — if they had been quite practical. 
But Mr. Ffrench had mounted his hobby, which always 
stood saddled and bridled. He talked of Haworth and 
Haworth’s success, the Works and their machinery. He 
calculated the expenses and the returns of the business. 
He even took out his tablets to get at the profits more ac- 
curately, and got down the possible cost of various im- 
provements which had suggested themselves. 

“ He has done so much,” he said, “ that it would be easy 
for him to do more. He could accomplish anything if he 
were a better educated man — or had an educated man as 
partner. They say,” he remarked afterward, “ that this 
Murdoch is not an ignoramus by any means. I hear that 
he has a positive passion for books and that he has made 
several quite remarkable improvements and additions to 
the machinery at the Works. It would be an odd thing,” 
biting the end of his pencil with a thoughtful air, “ it 
would be a dramatic sort of thing if he should make a 
success of the idea the poor fellow, his father, left incom- 
plete.” 

Indeed Miss Ffrench was quite prepared for his after- 
statement that he intended to pay a visit to the Works 
and their owner the next morning, though she could not 
altogether account for the slight hint of secret embarrass- 
ment which she fancied displayed itself when he made the 
announcement. 

“ It’s true the man is rough and high-handed enough,” 
he said. “ He has not been too civil in his behavior to me 
in times gone by, but I should like to know more of him 
in 6pite of it. He is worth cultivating.” 


86 


“ HAWORTH'S: 


He appeared at the Works the following morning, 
awakening thereby some interest among the shrewder 
spirits who knew him of old. 

“What’s he up to now?” they said to each other. 
“ He’s getten some crank i’ his yed or he would na be 
here.” 

Hot being at any time specially shrewd in the study of 
human nature, it must be confessed that Mr. Ffrench was 
not prepared for the reception he met with in the owner’s 
room. In his previous rare interviews with Jem Haworth 
he had been accorded but slight respect. His advances 
had been met in a manner savoring of rough contempt, 
his ephemeral hobbies disposed of with the amiable can- 
dor of the practical and not too polished mind ; he knew 
he had been jeered at openly at times, and now the man 
who had regarded him lightly and as if he felt that he 
held the upper hand, received him almost with a confused, 
self-conscious air. He even flushed when he got up and 
awkwardly shook hands. “Perhaps,” said his visitor to 
himself, “ events have taught him to feel the lack in him- 
self after all.” 

“ I looked forward, before my return, to calling upon 
you,” he said aloud. “ And I am glad to have the oppor- 
tunity at last.” 

Haworth reseated himself after giving him a chair, and 
answered with a nod and a somewhat incoherent wel- 
come. 

Ffrench settled himself with an agreeable consciousness 
of being less at a loss before the man than he had ever 
been in his life. 

“ What I have seen abroad,” he said, “ has added to the 
interest I have always felt in our own manufactures. You 
know that is a thing I have always cared for most. Peo- 


MR. FFRENCH VISITS THE WORKS. 


87 


pie have called it my hobby, though I don’t think that is 
quite the right name for it. You have done a great deal 
since I went away.” 

“ I shall do more yet,” said Haworth with effort, “ be- 
fore I’ve done with the thing.” 

“ You’ve done a good deal for Broxton. The place has 
grown wonderfully. Those cottages of yours are good 
work.” 

Haworth warmed up. His hand fell upon the table be- 
fore him heavily. 

“ It’s not Broxton I’m aimin’ at,” he said. “ Broxton’s 
naught to me. I’ll have good work or none. It’s this 
place here I’m at work on. I’ve said I’d set ‘ Haworth’s ’ 
above ’em all, and I’ll do it.” 

“ You’ve done it already,” answered Ffrench. 

“ Ay, but I tell you I’ll set it higher yet. I’ve got the 
money and I’ve got the will. There’s none on ’em can 
back down Jem Haworth ” 

“ No,” said Ffrench, suddenly and unaccountably con- 
scious of a weakness in himself and his position. He did 
not quite understand the man. His heat was a little con- 
fusing. 

“ This,” he decided mentally, “ is his hobby.” 

He sat and listened with real excitement as Haworth 
launched out more freely and with a stronger touch of 
braggadocio. 

He had set out in his own line and he meant to follow 
it in spite of all the gentlemen manufacturers in England. 
He had asked help from none of them, and they had 
given him none. He’d brought up the trade and he’d 
made money. There wasn’t a bigger place in the coun- 
try than “ Haworth’s,” nor a place that did the work it 
did. He’d have naught cheap and he’d have no fancy 


88 


“HAWORTH'S. 


prices. The chaps that worked for him knew their busi- 
ness and knew they’d lose naught by sticking to it. They 
knew, too, they’d got a master who looked sharp after ’em 
and stood no cheek nor no slack dodges. 

“ I’ve got the best lot in the trade under me,” he said. 
“ I’ve got a young chap in the engine-room as knows 
more about machinery than half the top-sawyers in Eng- 
land. By George ! I wish I knew as much. He’s a 
quiet chap and he’s young ; but if he knew how to look a 
bit sharper after himself, he’d make his fortune. The 
trouble is he’s too quiet and a bit too much of a gentle- 
man without knowing it. By George ! he is a gentle' 
man, if he is naught but Jem Haworth’s engineer.” 

“ He is proud of the fellow,” thought Ff rench. “ Proud 
of him, because he is a gentleman.” 

“He knows what’s worth knowing,” Haworth went on. 
“ And he keeps it to himself till the time comes to use it. 
He’s a chap that keeps his mouth shut. He comes up to 
my house and reads my books. I’ve not been brought 
up to books myself, but there’s none of ’em he can’t 
tackle. He’s welcome to use aught I’ve got. I’m not 
such a fool as to grudge him what all my brass won’t buy 
me.” 

“I think I’ve heard of him,” said Ffrench. “You 
mean Murdoch.” 

“ Ay,” Haworth answered, “ 1 mean Murdoch ; and 
there’s not many chaps like him. He’s the only one of 
the sort I ever run up against.” 

“I should like to see him,” said Ffrench. “My 
daughter saw him yesterday in one of the workmen’s cot- 
tages and,” with a faint smile, “ he struck her as having 
rather the air of a radical. It was one of her feminine 
fancies.” 


MR FFRENCH VISITS TEE WORKS 89 

There was a moment’s halt and then Haworth made 
his reply as forcibly as ever. 

“ Radical be hanged,” he said. “ He’s got work o’ his 
own to attend to. He’s one of the kind as leaves th’ radi- 
cals alone. He’s a straightforward chap that cares more 
for his books than aught else. I won’t say,” a trifle 
grudgingly, “ that he’s not a bit too straight in some 
things.” 

There was a halt again here which Ff rench rather won- 
dered at; then Haworth spoke again, bluntly and yet 
lagging a little. 

“ I — I saw her, Miss Ff rench, myself yesterday. I was 
walking down the street when her carriage passed.” 

Ff rench looked at him with an inward start. It was 
his turn to flush now. 

“ I think,” he said, “ that she mentioned it to me.” 

He appeared a trifle pre-occupied for some minutes 
afterward, and when he roused himself laughed and 
spoke nervously. The color did not die out of his face 
during the remainder of his visit ; even after he had 
made the tour of the Works and looked at the machinery 
and given a good deal of information concerning the 
manner in which things were done on the Continent, it 
was still there and perhaps it deepened slightly as he 
spoke his parting words. 

“ Then,” he said, “ I — we shall have the pleasure of 
seeing you at dinner to-morrow evening ? ” 

“ Yes,” Haworth answered, “I’ll be there.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 


NEARLY AN ACCIDENT. 

It was Rachel Ffrench who received her father’s guest 
the following evening. Mr. Ffrench had been delayed 
in his return from town and was still in his dressing- 
room. Accordingly when Haworth was announced, the 
doors of the drawing-room being flung open revealed to 
him the figure of his host’s daughter alone. 

The room was long and stately, and after she had risen 
from her seat it took Miss Ffrench some little time to 
make her way from one end to the other. Haworth had 
unconsciously halted after crossing the threshold, and it 
was not until she was half-way down the room that he 
bestirred himself to advance to meet her. He did not 
know why he had paused at first, and his sudden knowl- 
edge that he had done so roused him to a momentary sav- 
age anger. 

“ Dang it ! ” he said to himself. “ Why did I stand 
there like a fool? ” 

The reason could not be explained briefly. His own 
house was a far more splendid affair than Ffrench’s, and 
among his visitors from London and Manchester there 
were costumes far more gorgeous than that of Miss 
Ffrench. He was used to the flash of jewels and the 
gloss of brilliant colors. Miss Ffrench wore no orna- 
ments at all, and her dark purple dress was simple and 
close-clinging. 


NEARLY AN ACCIDENT . 


91 


A couple of paces from him she stopped and held out 
her hand. 

“ My father will be glad to see you,” she said. “ He 
was, unfortunately, detained this evening by business. 
He will be down stairs in a few moments.” 

His sense of being at a disadvantage when, after she 
had led him back to the fire, they were seated, was over- 
whelming. A great heat rushed over him ; the hush of the 
room, broken only by the light ticking of the clock, was 
misery. His eye traveled stealthily from the hem of her 
dark purple gown to the crowning waves of her fair hair, 
but he had not a word to utter. It made him feel almost 
brutal. 

“ But the day’ll come yet” he protested inwardly, feel- 
ing his weakness as he thought it, “ when I’ll hold my 
own. I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it again.” 

Miss Ffrench regarded him with a clear and direct 
gaze. She did not look away from him at all ; she was 
not in the least embarrassed, and though she did not 
smile, the calmness of her face was quite as perfect in 
expression. 

“ My father told me of his visit to your place,” she 
said. “ He interested me very much. I should like to 
see the Works, if you admit visitors. I know nothing of 
such things.” 

“ Any time you choose to come,” he answered, “ I’ll 
show you round — and be glad to do it. It’s a pretty big 
place of the kind.” 

He was glad she had chosen this subject. If she would 
only go on, it would not be so bad. He would be in his 
own groove. And she did go on. 

“ I’ve seen very little of Broxton,” she proceeded. “ I 
spent a few weeks here before going abroad again with 


92 


“HAWORTH'S. 


my father, and I cannot say I have been very fond of it. 
I do not like England, and on the Continent one hears 
unpleasant things of English manufacturing towns. I 
think,” smiling a little for the first time, “ that one always 
associates them with c strikes ’ and squalid people.” 

“ There is not much danger of strikes here,” he replied. 
“ I give my chaps fair play and let ’em know who’s 
master.” 

“ But they have radical clubs,” she said, “ and talk poli- 
tics and get angry when they are not sober. I’ve heard 
that much already.” 

“ They don’t talk ’em in my place,” he answered, dog- 
matically. 

He was not quite sure whether it relieved him or not 
when Ffrench entered at this moment and interrupted 
them. He was more at his ease with Ffrench, and yet he 
felt himself at a disadvantage still. He scarcely knew 
how the night passed. A feverish unrest was upon him. 
Sometimes he hardly heard what his entertainer said, and 
Mr. Ffrench was in one of his most voluble and diffuse 
moods. He displayed his knowledge of trade and me- 
chanics with gentlemanly ostentation ; he talked of 
“ Trades’ Unions ” and the master’s difficulties ; he in- 
troduced manufacturer’s politics and expatiated on Con- 
tinental weaknesses. He weighed the question of demand 
and supply and touched on “ protective tariff.” 

“ Blast him,” said Haworth, growing bitter mentally, 
“ he thinks I’m up to naught else, and he’s right.” 

As her father talked Miss Ffrench joined in but seldom. 
She listened and looked on in a manner of which Haworth 
was conscious from first to last. The thought made its 
way into his mind, finally, that she looked on as if these 
matters did not touch her at all and she was only faintly 


NEARLY AN ACCIDENT. 


93 


curious about them. Her eyes rested on him with a secret 
air of watchful interest ; he met them more than once as 
he looked up and she did not turn them away. He sat 
through it all, full of vengeful resentment, and was at 
once wretched and happy, in spite of it and himself. 

When, at her father’s request, she played and sang, he 
sat apart moody and yet full of clumsy rapture. He 
knew nothing of the music, but his passion found a tongue 
in it, nevertheless. If she had played badly he would 
have taken the lack of harmony for granted, but as she 
played well he experienced a pleasure, while he did not 
comprehend. 

When it was all over and he found himself out alone in 
the road in the dark, he was feverish still. 

“ I don’t seem to have made naught at th’ first sight,” 
he said. Then he added with dogged exultation, “ But 
I don’t look for smooth sailing. I know enough for 
that. I’ve seen her and been nigh her, and that’s worth 
setting down — with a chap like me.” 

At the end of the week a carriage drove up to the gate- 
way of the Works, and Mr. Ffrench and his daughter de- 
scended from it. Mr. Ffrench was in the best of humors ; 
he was in his element as he expatiated upon the size and 
appointments of the place. He had been expatiating upon 
them during the whole of the drive. 

On their being joined by Haworth himself, Miss Ffrench 
decided inwardly that here upon his own domain he was 
not so wholly objectionable as she had fancied at first — - 
even that he was deserving of a certain degree of approval. 
Despite the signs of elated excitement, her quick eye de- 
tected at once that he was more at his ease. His big 
frame did not look out of place ; he moved as if he was 
at home, and upon the whole his rough air of authority 


94 


HA WORTH'S.' 


and the promptness with which his commands were obeyed 
did not displease her. 

“ He is master,” she said to herself. 

She was fond of power and liked the evidence of it in 
others. She did not object to the looks the men, who 
were at work, cast upon her as she went from one depart- 
ment to another. Her beauty had never yet failed to 
command masculine homage from all ranks. The great 
black fellows at the furnaces exchanged comments as she 
passed. They would have paused in their work to look 
at her if they had dared. The object of their admira- 
tion bore it calmly; it neither confounded nor touched 
her ; it did not move her at all. 

Mr. Ffrench commented, examined and explained with 
delightful eloquence. 

“We are fortunate in timing our visit so well,” he said 
to his daughter. “ They are filling an immense order for 
the most important railroad in the country. On my honor, 
I would rather be at the head of such a gigantic establish- 
ment than sit on the throne of England ! But where is 
this jprotege of yours?” he said to Haworth at last. “I 
should like above all things to see him.” 

“ Murdoch ? ” answered Haworth. “ Oh, we’re coming 
to him after a bit. He’s in among the engines.” 

When they reached the engine-rooms Haworth presented 
him with little ceremony, and explained the purpose of 
their visit. They wanted to see the engines and he was 
the man to make the most of them. 

Mr. Ffrench’s interest was awakened readily. The 
mechanic from Cumberland had been a pretentious ignor- 
amus ; the young man from Manchester had dropped his 
aspirates and worn loud plaids and flaming neck-ties, but 
this was a less objectionable form of genius. 


NEARLY AN ACCIDENT. 


95 


Mr. Ffrench began to ask questions and make himself 
agreeable, and in a short time was very well entertained 
indeed. 

Miss Ffrench listened with but slight demonstrations 
of interest. She did not understand the conversation 
which was being carried on between her father and Mur- 
doch, and she made no pretense of doing so. 

“ It is all very clear to them” she said to Haworth as 
they stood near each other. 

“ It’s all clear enough to him,” said Haworth, signify- 
ing Murdoch with a gesture. 

Upon which Miss Ffrench smiled a little. She was 
not sensitive upon the subject of her father’s hobbies, and 
the coarse frankness of the remark amused her. 

But notwithstanding her lack of interest she drew 
nearer to the engine finally and stood looking at it, feel- 
ing at once fascinated and unpleasantly overpowered by 
its heavy, invariable motion. 

It was as she stood in this way a little later that Mur- 
doch’s glance fell upon her. The next instant, with the 
simultaneous cry of terror which broke from the others, 
he had thrown himself forward and dragged her back by 
main force, and among the thunderous wheels and rods 
and shafts there was slowly twisted and torn and ground 
into shreds a fragment of the delicate fabric of her dress. 
It was scarcely the work of a second. Her father stag- 
gered toward them white and trembling. 

“Good God!” he cried. “Good God! What ” 

the words died upon his bloodless lips. 

She freed herself from Murdoch’s grasp and stood up- 
right. She did not look at him at all, she looked at her 
father and lightly brushed with her hand her sleeve at 
the wrist. Despite her pallor it was difficult to realize 


96 


“HAWORTH'S: 


that she only held herself erect by a terrible effort of self- 
-control. 

“ Why ” — she said — “ why did he touch me — in that 
manner ? ” 

Haworth uttered a smothered oath; Murdoch turned 
about and strode out of the room. He did not care to 
remain to hear the explanation. 

As he went out into the open air a fellow- workman, 
passing by, stopped to stare at him. 

“ What’s up wi’ thee ? ” he asked. “ Has tha been pun- 
sin Haworth o’er again ? ” The incident referred to 
being always remembered as a savory and delectable 
piece of humor. 

Murdoch turned to him with a dazed look. 

u I — ” he stammered. “ We — have very nearly had 
an accident.” And went on his way without further ex- 
planation. 


CHAPTER XV. 


“it would be a good thing.* 

Exciting events were not so common in Broxton and 
its vicinity that this one could remain in the background. 
It furnished a topic of conversation for the dinner and 
tea-tables of every family within ten miles of the place. 
On Murdoch’s next visit to the Briarleys’, Granny Dixon 
insisted on having the matter explained for the fortieth 
time and was manifestly disgusted by the lack of dram- 
atic incident connected with it. 

“ Tha seed her dress catch i’ th’ wheel an’ dragged her 
back,” she shouted. “Was na theer nowt else? Did na 
she swound away, nor nothin’ ? ” 

“ No,” he answered. “ She did not know what had 
happened at first.” 

Granny Dixon gave him a shrewd glance of examina- 
tion, and then favored him with a confidential remark, 
presented at the top of her voice. 

“ I conna bide her,” she said. 

“What did Mr. Ffrench say to thee?” asked Janey. 
“ Does tha think he’ll gie thee owt fur it ? ” 

“ No,” answered Murdoch. “He won’t do that.” 

“ He owt to,” said Janey fretfully. “ An’ tha owt to 
tak’ it, if he does. Tha does na think enow o’ money an’ 
th’ loike. Yo’ll nivver get on i’ th’ world if yo’ mak’ 
light o’ money an’ let it slip by yo’.” 

5 


98 


“ HA WORTH'S: 


Floxham had told the story somewhat surlily to his 
friends, and his friends had retailed it over their beer, 
and the particulars had thus become common property. 

“ What did she say ? ” Floxham had remarked at the 
first relation. “ She said nowt, that’s what she said. 
She did na quoite mak’ th’ thing out at first, an’ she stood 
theer brushin’ th’ black off her sleeve. Happen,” sardon- 
ically, “ she did na loike th’ notion o’ a working chap 
catchin’ howd on her wi’out apologizin’.” 

Haworth asked Murdoch to spend an evening with him, 
and sat moody and silent through the greater part of it. 
At last he said : 

“You think you’ve been devilish badly treated,” he 
said. “ But, by the Lord ! I wish I was in your place.” 

“ You wish,” repeated Murdoch, “ that you were in my 
place ? I don’t know that it’s a particularly pleasant place 
to be in.” 

Haworth leaned forward upon the table and stared 
across at him gloomily. 

“ Look here,” he said. “ You know naught about her. 
She's hard to get at ; but she’ll remember what’s happened ; 
cool as she took it, she’ll remember it.” 

“ I don’t want her to remember it,” returned Murdoch. 
“Why should it matter? It’s a thing of yesterday. It 
was nothing but chance. Let it go.” 

“ Confound it ! ” said Haworth, with a restive morose- 
ness. “ I tell you I wish I’d been in your place — at twice 
the risk.” 

The same day Mr. Ffrench had made a visit to the 
Works for the purpose of setting his mind at rest and 
expressing his gratitude in a graceful manner. In fact 
he was rather glad of the opportunity to present himself 
upon the ground so soon again. But on confronting the 


“ IT WOULD BE A GOOD THING: 


99 


hero of the hour, he found that somehow the affair dwin- 
dled and assumed an altogether incidental and unheroic 
aspect. His rather high-flown phrases modified themselves 
and took a different tone. 

“ He is either very reserved or very shy,” he said after- 
ward to his daughter. “ It is not easy to reach him at the 
outset. There seems a lack of enthusiasm about him, so 
to speak.” 

“ Will he come to the house ? ” asked Miss Ffrench. 

“ Oh yes. I suppose he will come, but it was very plain 
that he would rather have stayed away. He had too 
much good taste to refuse point-blank to let you speak to 
him.” 

“ Good taste ! ” repeated Miss Ffrench. 

Her father turned upon her with manifest irritation. 

“ Good taste ! ” he repeated petulantly. “ Cannot you 
see that the poor fellow is a gentleman? I wish you 
would show less of this nonsensical caste prejudice, Ra- 
chel.” 

“ I suppose one necessarily dispenses with a good deal 
of it in a place like this,” she answered. “In making 
friends with Mr. Haworth, for instance ” 

Mr. Ffrench drew nearer to her and rested his elbow 
upon the mantel with rather an embarrassed expression. 

“ I wish you to — to behave well to Haworth,” he said 
faltering. “I — a great deal may — may depend upon 
it.” 

She looked up at him at once, lifting her eyes in a se- 
rene glance. 

“ Do you want to go into the iron trade ? ” she asked re- 
lentlessly. 

He blushed scarlet, but she did not move her eyes from 
his face on that account. 


100 


HAWORTH'S 


“ What — what Haworth needs,” he stammered, “ is a — 
a man of education to — to assist him. A man who had 
studied the scientific features of — of things, might suggest 
valuable ideas to him. There is an — an immense field 
open to a rich, enterprising fellow such as he is — a man 
who is fearless and — and who has the means to carry out 
his ventures.” 

“ You mean a man who will try to do new things,” she 
remarked. “ Do you think he would ? ” 

“The trouble has been,” floundering more hopelessly 
than ever, “ that his lack of cultivation has — well, has forced 
him to act in a single groove. If — if he had a — a partner 
who — knew the ropes, so to speak — his business would be 
doubled — trebled.” 

She repeated aloud one of his words. 

“ A partner,” she said. 

He ran his hand through his hair and stared at her, 
wishing that he could think of something decided to say. 

“ Does he know you would like to be his partner ? ” she 
asked next. 

u H — no,” he faltered, “ not exactly.” 

She sat a moment looking at the fire. 

“I do not believe he would do it,” she said at last. 
u He is too proud of having done everything single- 
handed.” 

Then she looked at her father again. 

“ If be would,” she said, “ and there were no rash ven- 
tures made, it would be a good thing.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 


“a poor chap as is allus i’ trouble.” 

“ It was nothing but a chance, after all,” Murdoch said 
to Miss Ffrench, just as he had said to Haworth. “ It 
happened that I was the first to see the danger.” 

She stood opposite to him upon the hearth in her fa- 
ther’s house. Neither of them had sat down. She rested 
her arm upon the low mantel and played with a flower 
she held in her hand. She looked at the flower as she 
made the reply. 

“You think of it very lightly,” she said with rather 
cold deliberateness. He did not regard her furtively as 
Haworth had done. Raising her eyes suddenly, after she 
had said this, she met his, which were fixed upon her. 

“No,” he answered. “Not lightly at all. It was a 
horrible thing. I shall never forget it.” 

She shuddered. 

“ Nor I,” she said. 

Then she added, rather in the tone of one reluctantly 
making a confession : 

“ I have not slept easily through one night since.” 

“ That is very natural,” he returned ; “ but the feeling 
will wear away.” 

He would have left her then, but she stopped him with 
a gesture. 


102 


“ HA WORTH'S.' 


“Wait a moment,” she said. “There is something 
else.” 

He paused as she bade him. A slight color rose to her 
cheek. 

“ When I spoke,” she said, “ I did not understand at all 
what had happened — not at all. I was stunned and an- 
gry. I thought that if I was too near you, you might 
have spoken instead of doing as you did.” Then with 
studied coldness and meeting his gaze fully, “It would 
have been a vile thing to have said — if I had under- 
stood.” 

“ Yes,” he answered. “ It would have been a vile thing, 
if you had understood ; but you did not, and I realized 
that when I had time to think over it coolly.” 

“Then at first,” she put it to him, “it made you 
angry ? ” 

“ Yes. I had run some risk, you know, and had had 
the luck to save your life.” 

The interview ended here, and it was some time before 
they met again. 

But Murdoch heard of her often ; so often indeed that 
she was kept pretty constantly before him. He heard of 
her from Haworth, from the Briarleys, from numberless 
sources indeed. 

It became her caprice to make a kind of study of the 
people around her and to find entertainment in it. When 
she drove through the streets of the little town, past the 
workmen’s cottages, and the Works themselves, she was 
stared at and commented upon. Her beauty, her dress, 
her manners roused the beholders either to lavish or 
grudging acknowledgment. Dirty children sometimes 
followed her carriage, and on its stopping at any point a 
small crowd gathered about it. 


“A POOR CHAP AS IS ALL US P TROUBLE.” 103 


“ She’s been here again,” shouted Granny Dixon one 
evening as Murdoch took a seat near her chair. 

“ Who ? ” he asked. 

“ Her. That lass o’ Ffrench’s — th’ one I conna bide. 
She mak’s out she’s ta’en a fancy to our Janey. I dun- 
not believe her,” at a louder pitch and with vigorous nods. 

“ Tha nasty tempert owd body ! ” cried Mrs. Briarley 
sotto voce. “ Get out wi’ thee ! ” 

“ What art tha sayin’ ? ” demanded her guest. “ Dun- 
not tell me tha wur sayin’ nowt. I saw thee.” 

“ I — I wur sayin’ it wur a bad day fur th’ wash,” fal- 
tered the criminal, “ an’ fur them as had rheumatiz. 
How’s — how’s thine, Misses ? ” 

“ Tha’rt tellin’ a lee,” was the rejoinder. “Tha wert 
sayin’ summat ill o’ me. I caught thee at it.” 

Then going back to the subject and turning to Mur- 
doch: 

“ I dunnot believe her ! She cares nowt fur nowt at 
th’ top o’ th’ earth but hersen. She set here to-day get- 
tin’ em to mak’ foo’s o’ theersens because it happen’t to 
suit her. She’s getten nowt better to do an’ she wants to 
pass th’ toime — if theer’s nowt else at th’ back on it. 
She’s Will Ffrench ower again. She conna mak’ a foo’ 
o’ me.” 

“ He made foo’ enow o’ thee i’ his day,” commented 
Mrs. Briarley, cautiously. 

Granny Dixon favored her with a sharper glance than 
before. 

“ Tha’rt sayin’ summat ill again,” she cried. “ Howd 
thy tongue!” 

“ Eh ! ” whimpered the poor woman. “ A body dare 
na say theer soul’s theer own when hoo’s about — hoo’s that 
sharp an’ ill-farrant.” 


104 


“ HA WORTH'S' 


A few minutes after, Briarley came in. Janey piloted 
him and he entered with a smile at once apologetic and 
encouraging. 

“ He wur theer,” said Janey. “ But he had na had 
nowt.” 

Briarley sidled forward and seated himself upon the 
edge of a chair ; his smile broadened steadily, but he was 
in a tremendous minority. Granny Dixon transfixed him 
with her baleful eye, and under its influence the smile 
was graduated from exhilarated friendliness to gravity, 
from gravity to gentle melancholy, from melancholy to 
deepest gloom. But at this stage a happy thought struck 
him and he beamed again. 

“ How — how art tha doin’, Misses ! ” he quavered. “ I 
hope tha’rt makin’ thysen comfortable.” 

The reception this polite anxiety met with was not en- 
couraging. Granny Dixon’s eye assumed an expression 
still more baleful. 

“ Tha’st been at it again,” she shouted. “ Tha’st been 
at it again. Tha’ll neer git none o’ my brass to spend at 
th’ ale-house. Mak’ sure o’ that.” 

Mr. Briarley turned his attention to the fire again. 
Melancholy was upon the point of marking him for 
her own, when the most delicate of tact came to his res- 
cue. 

“ It is na thy brass we want, Misses,” he proclaimed. 
u It’s — it’s thy comp’ny.” And then clenched the matter 
by adding still more feebly, “ Ay, to be sure it’s thy com- 
p’ny, is na it, Sararann ? ” 

“ Ay,” faltered Mrs. Briarley, “ to be sure.” 

“ It’s nowt o’ th’ soart,” answered Granny Dixon, in the 
tone of the last trump. “ An’ dunnot yo’ threep me down 
as it is.” 


“ A POOR CHAP AS IS ALLUS P TROUBLE ” 105 


Mr. Briarley’s countenance fell. Mrs. Briarley shed a 
few natural tears under cover of the baby ; discretion and 
delicacy forbade either to retort. Their venerable guest 
having badgered them into submission glared at the fire 
with the air of one who detected its feeble cunning and 
defied it. 

It was Mr. Briarley who first attempted to recover 
cheerfulness. 

“ Tha’st had quality to see thee, Sararann,” he ventured. 
“ Our Jane towd me.” 

“ Ay,” answered Mrs. Briarley, tearfully. 

Mr. Briarley fell into indiscreet reverie. 

“ The chap as gets her,” he said, “ ’ll get a han’some 
lass. I would na moind,” modestly, “ I would na moind 
bein’ i’ his shoes mysen.” 

Mrs. Briarley’s smothered wrongs broke forth. 

“ Thee ! ” she cried out. “ Tha brazant nowt ! I worn 
der tha’rt na sham’t o’ thy face — talkin’ i’ that rood about 
a lady, an’ afore thy own wife! I wonder tha art na 
sham’t.” 

Mr. Briarley’s courage forsook him. He sought refuge 
in submissive penitence almost lachrymose. 

“ I did na mean nowt, Sararann,” he protested meekly. 
“ It wur a slip o’ th’ tongue, lass. I’m — I’m not th’ build 
as a young woman o’ that soart ud be loike to tak’ up 
wi\” 

“ Yo’ wur good enow fur me onct,” replied Mrs. Briar- 
ley, sharply. “ A noice un yo’ are settin’ yore wedded wife 
below other people — as if she wur dirt.” 

“ Ay, Sararann,” the criminal faltered, “ I wur good 
enow fur yo’ but — but — yo ” 

But at this point he dropped his head upon his hand, 
shaking it in mournful contrition. 

5 * 


106 


“ HA WORTHS. 


“ I’m a poor chap,” he said. “ I’m nowt but a poor chap 
as is alius i’ trouble. I’m not th’ man yo’ ought to ha’ 
had, Sararann.” 

“ Nay,” retorted Mrs. Briarley. “ That tha’rt not, an’ 
it’s a pity tha did na foind that theer out thirteen year 
ago.” 

Mr. Briarley shook his head with a still deeper depres- 
sion.” 

“ Ay, Sararann,” he answered, “ seems loike it is.” 

He did not recover himself until Murdoch took his de- 
parture, and then he followed him deprecatingly to the 
door. 

“ Does tha think,” he asked, “ as that theer’s true ? ” 

“ That what is true \ ” 

“ That theer th’ chaps has been talkin’ ower.” 

“ I don’t know,” answered Murdoch, “ what they have 
been talking over.” 

“ They’re gettin’ it goin’ among ’em as Haworth’s goin’ 
to tak’ Ffrench in partner.” 

Murdoch looked up the road for a few seconds before 
he replied. He was thinking over the events of the past 
week. 

“ I do not think it is true,” he said, after this pause. 
“ I don’t think it can be. Haworth is not the man to do 
it.” 

But the idea was such a startling one, presented in this 
form, that it gave him a kind of shock ; and as he went 
on his way naturally thinking over the matter, he deri ved 
some consolation from repeating aloud his last words : 

“No, it is not likely. Haworth is not the man to do 
it.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 


A FLOWER. 

But at last it was evident that the acquaintance be- 
tween Haworth and Ffrench had advanced with great rap- 
idity. Ffrench appeared at the Works, on an average, 
three or four times a week, and it had become a common 
affair for Haworth to spend an evening with him and his 
daughter. He was more comfortable in his position of 
guest in these days. Custom had given him greater ease 
and self-possession. After two visits he had begun to give 
himself up to the feverish enjoyment of the hour. His 
glances were no longer furtive and embarrassed. At times 
he reached a desperate boldness. 

“There’s something about her,” he said to Murdoch, 
“ that draws a fellow on and holds him off both at the 
same time. Sometimes I nigh lose my head when Pm 
with her.” 

He was moody and resentful at times, but he went 
again and again, and held his own after a manner. On 
the occasion of the first dinner Mr. Ffrench gave to his 
old friends, no small excitement was created by Haworth’s 
presence among the guests. The first man who, entering 
the room with his wife and daughters, caught sight of his 
brawny frame and rather dogged face, faltered and grew 
nervous, and would have turned back if he had possessed 
the courage to be the first to protest. Everybody else 


108 


HAWORTH'S : 


lacked the same courage, it appeared, for nobody did pro- 
test openly, though there were comments enough made in 
private, and as much coldness of manner as good breeding 
would allow. 

Miss Ffrench herself was neither depressed nor ill at 
ease. It was reluctantly admitted that she had never ap- 
peared to a greater advantage nor in better spirits. 

Before the evening was half over it was evident to all 
that she was not resenting the presence of her father’s 
new found friend. She listened to his attempts at con- 
versation with an attentive and suave little smile. If she 
was amusing herself at his expense, she was at the same 
time amusing herself at the expense of those who looked 
on, and was delicately defying their opinion. 

Jem Haworth went home that night excited and exult- 
ant. He lay awake through the night, and went down to 
the Works early. 

“ 1 didn’t get the worst of it, after all,” he said to Mur- 
doch. “ Let ’em grin and sert if they will — ‘ them laughs 
that wins.’ She — she never was as handsome in her life 
as she was last night, and she never treated me as well. 
She never says much. She only lets a fellow come nigh 
and talk ; but she treated me well — in her way.” 

“ I’m going to send for my mother,” he said afterward, 
somewhat shamefacedly. “ I’m goin’ to begin a straight 
life ; I want naught to stand agin me. And if she’s here 
they’ll come to see her. I want all the chances I can 
get.” 

He wrote the letter to his mother the same day. 

“ The old lady will be glad enough to come,” he said, 
when he had finished it. “The finery about her will 
trouble her a bit at first, but she’ll get over it.” 

His day’s work over, Murdoch did not return home at 


A FLOWER 


109 


once. His restless habit of taking long rambles across 
the country had asserted itself with unusual strength, of 
late. He spent little time in the house. To-night he 
was later than usual. lie came in fagged and mud- 
splashed. Christian was leaving the room as he entered 
it, but she stopped with her hand upon the door. 

“We have had visitors,” she said. 

“ Who ? ” he asked. 

“ Mr. Ffrench and his daughter. Mr. Ffrench wanted 
to see you. She did not come in, but sat in the carriage 
outside.” 

She shut the door and came back to the hearth. 

“ She despises us all ! ” she said. “ She despises us all ! ” 

He had flung himself into a chair and lay back, clasp- 
ing his hands behind his head and looking gloomily be- 
fore him. 

“ Sometimes I think she does,” he said. “ But what of 
that 1 ” 

She answered without looking at him. 

“ To be sure,” she said. “ What of that ? ” 

After a little she spoke again. 

“ There is something I have thought of saying to you,” 
she said. “ It is this. I am happier here than I ever 
was before.” 

“ I am very glad,” he answered. 

“ I never thought of being happy,” she went on, “ or 
like other women in anything. I — I was different.” 

She said the words with perfect coldness. 

“ I was different.” 

“ Different ! ” he echoed absently, and then checked 
himself. “ Don’t say that,” he said. “ Don’t think it. 
It won’t do. Why shouldn’t you be as good and happy 
as any woman who ever lived \ ” 


110 


“ HA WORTH'S. 


She remained silent. But her silence only stirred him 
afresh. 

“ It is a bad beginning,” he said. “ I know it is because 
I have tried it. I have said to myself that I was different 
from other men, too.” 

He ended with an impatient movement and a sound 
half like a groan. 

“ Here I am,” he cried, “ telling myself it is better to 
battle against the strongest feeling of my life because I 
am 4 different ’ — because there is a kind of taint in my 
blood. I don’t begin as other men do by hoping. I be- 
gin by despairing, and yet I can’t give up. How it will 
end, God knows ! ” 

“ I understand you better than you think,” she said. 

Something in her voice startled him. 

“ What ! ” he exclaimed. “ Has my mother ” 

He stopped and gazed at her, wondering. Some 
powerful emotion he could not comprehend expressed it- 
self in her face. 

“ She does not speak of it often,” she said. “ She 
thinks of it always.” 

“ Yes,” he answered. “ I know that. She is afraid. 
She is haunted by her dread of it — and,” his voice drop- 
ping, “ so am I.” 

He felt it almost unnatural that he should speak so 
freely. He had found it rather difficult to accustom him- 
self to her presence in the house, sometimes he had even 
been repelled by it, and yet, just at this moment, he felt 
somehow as if they stood upon the same platform and 
were near each other. 

“ It will break loose some day,” he cried. “ And the 
day is not far off. I shall run the risk and either win or 
lose. I fight hard for every day of dull quiet I gain. 


A FLOWER. 


Ill 


When I look back over the past I feel that perhaps I am 
holding a chained devil ; but when 1 look forward I for- 
get, and doubt seems folly.” 

“ In jour place,” she said, “ I would risk my life upon 
it!” 

The passion in her voice amazed him. He compre- 
hended even less clearly than before. 

“ 1 know what it has cost,” she said. “No one better. 
I am afraid to pass the door of the room where it lies, in 
the dark. It is like a dead thing, always there. Some- 
times I fancy it is not alone and that the door might open 
and show me some one with it.” 

“What do you mean?” he said. “You speak as 
if ” 

“ You would not understand if I should tell you,” she 
answered a little bitterly. “We are not very good friends 
— perhaps we never shall be — but I will tell you this 
again, that in your place I would never give it up — 
never ! I would be true to him , if all the world were 
against me ! ” 

She went away and shortly afterward he left the room 
himself, intending to go upstairs. 

As he reached the bottom of the staircase, a light from 
above fell upon his face and caused him to raise it. The 
narrow passage itself was dark, but on the topmost stair 
his mother stood holding a lamp whose light struck upon 
him. She did not advance, but waited as he came up- 
ward, looking down at him, not speaking. Then they 
passed each other, going their separate ways. 

The next day Ffrench appeared in the engine-room 
itself. He had come to see Murdoch, and having seen 
him went away in most excellent humor. 


112 


“HAWORTH'S. 


“ What’s he after ? ” inquired Floxham, when he was 
gone. 

“ He wants me at his house,” said Murdoch. “ He 
says he needs my opinion in some matter.” 

He went to the house the same evening, and gave his 
opinion upon the matter in question, and upon several 
others also. In fact, Mr. Ffrench took possession of him 
as he had taken possession of the young man from Man- 
chester, and the Cumberland mechanic, though in this 
case he had different metal to work upon. He was amia- 
ble, generous and talkative. He exhibited his minerals, 
his plans for improved factories and workmen’s dwelling- 
houses, his little collection of models which had proved 
impracticable, and his books on mechanics and manufac- 
tures. He was as generous as Haworth himself in the 
matter of his library ; it was at his visitor’s service when- 
ever he chose. 

As they talked Rachel Ffrench remained in the room. 
During the evening she went to the piano and sitting 
down played and sung softly as if for no other ears than 
her own. Once, on her father’s leaving the room, she 
turned and spoke to Murdoch. 

“ You were right in saying I should outlive my terror 
of what happened to me,” she said. “ It has almost en- 
tirely worn away.” 

“ I am glad,” he answered. 

She held in her belt a flower like the one which had 
attracted Granny Dixon’s attention. As she crossed the 
room shortly afterward it fell upon the floor. She picked 
it up but, instead of replacing it, laid it carelessly upon 
the table at Murdoch’s side. 

After he had risen from his chair, when on the point 
of leaving, he stood near this table and almost uncon- 


A FLOWER 


113 


sciously took the flower up, and when he went out of the 
house he held it in his fingers. 

The night was dark and his mood was preoccupied. 
He scarcely thought of the path before him at all, and on 
passing through the gate he came, without any warning, 
upon a figure standing before it. He drew back and 
would have spoken had he been given the time. 

“ Hush,” said Haworth’s voice. “ It’s me, lad.” 

“What are you doing here?” asked Murdoch. “Are 
you going in ? ” 

“ No,” surlily, “ I’m not.” 

Murdoch said no more. Haworth turned with him and 
strode along by his side. But he got over his ill-temper 
sufficiently to speak after a few minutes. 

“ It’s the old tale,” he said. “ I’m making a fool of 
myself. I can’t keep away. I was there last night, and 
to-night the fit came upon me so strong that I was bound 
to go. But when I got there I’d had time to think it 
over and I couldn’t make up my mind to go in. I knew 
I’d better give her a rest. What did Ffrench want of 
you ? ” 

Murdoch explained. 

“ Hid you see — her ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well,” restlessly, “ have you naught to say about 
her?” 

“No,” coldly. “What should I have to say of her? 
It’s no business of mine to talk her over.” 

“You’d talk her over if you were in my place,” said 
Haworth. “ You’d be glad enow to do it. You’d think 
of her night and day, and grow hot and cold at the 
thought of her. You— you don’t know her as I do— if 
you did ” 


114 


“ HA WORTH'S. 


They had reached the turn of the lane, and the light of 
the lamp which stood there fell upon them. Haworth 
broke off his words and stopped under the blaze. Mur- 
doch saw his face darken with bitter passion. 

“ Curse you ! ” he said. “ Where did you get it ? ” 

Without comprehending him Murdoch looked down 
at his own hand at which the man was pointing, and saw 
in it the flower he had forgotten he held. 

“ This ? ” he said, and though he did not know why, the 
blood leaped to his face. 

“ Ay,” said Haworth. “ You know well enow what I 
mean. Wliere did you get it ? Do you think I don’t know 
the look on it ? ” 

“ You may, or you may not,” answered Murdoch. 
“ That is nothing to me. I took it up without thinking 
of it. If I had thought of it I should have left it where 
it was. I have no right to it — nor you either.” 

Haworth drew near to him. 

“ Give it here ! ” he demanded, hoarsely. 

They stood and looked each other in the eye. Exter- 
nally Murdoch was the calmer of the two, but he held in 
check a fiercer heat than he had felt for many a day. 

“ Ho,” he answered. “ Hot I. Think over what you 
are doing. You will not like to remember it to-morrow. 
It is not mine to give nor yours to take. I have done with 
my share of it — there it is.” And he crushed it in his 
hand, and flung it, exhaling its fragrance, upon the ground ; 
then turned and went his way. He had not intended 
to glance backward, but he was not as strong as he 
thought. He did look backward before he had gone ten 
yards, and doing so saw Haworth bending down and 
gathering the bruised petals from the earth. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


“ HAWORTH & CO.” 

The next day, when he descended from his gig at the 
gates, instead of going to his office, Haworth went to the 
engine-room. 

“ Leave your work a bit and come into my place,” he 
said to Murdoch. “ I want you.” 

His tone was off-hand but not ill-humored. There was 
a hint of embarrassment in it. Murdoch followed him 
without any words. Having led the way into his office, 
Haworth shut the door and faced him. 

“ Can tha guess what I want ? ” he demanded. 

“No,” Murdoch answered. 

“ Well, it’s easy told. You said I’d be cooler to-day, 
and I am. A night gives a man time to face a thing 
straight. I’d been making a fool of myself before you 
came up, but I made a bigger fool of myself afterward. 
There’s the end on it.” 

“ I suppose,” said Murdoch, “ that it was natural 
enough you should look at the thing differently just then. 
Perhaps I made a fool of myself too.” 

“ You ! ” said Haworth, roughly. “ You were cool 
enow.” 

Later Ffrench came in, and spent an hour with him, 
and after his departure Haworth made the rounds of the 
place in one of the worst of his moods. 


116 


“HAWORTH'S: 


“ Aye,” said Floxham to his companion, “ that’s alius 
th’ road when he shows hissen.” 

The same day Janey Briarley presented herself to Mr. 
French’s housekeeper, with a message from her mother. 
Having delivered the message, she was on her way from 
the housekeeper’s room, when Miss Ffrench, who sat in 
the drawing-room, spoke through the open door to the 
servant. 

“ If that is the child,” she said, “ bring her here to me.” 

Janey entered the great room, awe-stricken and over- 
powered by its grandeur. Miss Ffrench, who sat near the 
fire, addressed her, turning her head over her shoulder. 

“ Come here,” she commanded. 

Janey advanced with something approaching tremor. 
Miss Ffrench was awe-inspiring anywhere, but Miss 
Ffrench amid the marvels of her own drawing-room, lean- 
ing back in her chair and regarding her confusion with a 
suggestion of friendly notice, was terrible. 

“ Sit down,” she said, “ and talk to me.” 

But here the practical mind rebelled and asserted itself, 
in spite of abasement of spirit. 

“ I haven’t getten nowt to talk about,” said Janey, stoutly. 
“ What mun I say % ” 

“ Anything you like,” responded Miss Ffrench. “ I am 
not particular. There’s a chair.” 

Janey seated herself in it. It was a large one, in which 
her small form was lost. Her parcel was a big one, but 
Miss Ffrench did not tell her to put it down, so she held 
it on her knee and was almost hidden behind it, present- 
ing somewhat the appearance of a huge newspaper pack- 
age, clasped by arms and surmounted by a small, sharp 
face and an immense bonnet, with a curious appendage of 
short legs and big shoes. 



SIT DOWN , 77 SHE SAID, AND TALK TO ME 







“ HAWORTH & CO. 


117 


“ 1 dunnot see,” the girl was saying mentally, and with 
some distaste for her position, “ what she wants wi’ 
me.” 

But as she stared over the top of her parcel, she gradu- 
ally softened. The child found Miss Ffrench well worth 
looking at. 

“ Eh ! ” she announced, with admiring candor. “ Eh ! 
but tha art han’some ! ” 

“ Am I ? ” said Bachel Ffrench. “ Thank you.” 

“ Aye,” answered Janey, “ tha art. I nivver seed no 
lady loike thee afore, let alone a young woman. I’ve said 
so mony a toime to Mester Murdoch.” 

“ Have you ? ” 

“ Aye, I’m alius talkin’ to him about thee.” 

“ That’s kind,” said Bachel Ffrench. “ I dare say he 
enjoys it. Who is he % ” 

“ Him ! ” exclaimed Janey. “ Dost na tha know him ? 
Him as was at our house th’ day yo’ coom th’ first toime. 
Him as dragged thee out o’ th’ engine.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Miss Ffrench, “ the engineer.” 

“ Aye,” in a tone of some discomfiture. “ He’s a en- 
gineer, but he is na th’ common workin’ soart. Granny 
Dixon says he’s getten gentlefolks’ ways.” 

“ I should think,” remarked Miss Ffrench, “ that Mrs. 
Dixon knew.” 

“ Aye, she’s used to gentlefolk. They’ve takken notice 
on her i’ her young days. She knowed thy grandfeyther.” 

“ She gave me to understand as much,” responded Miss 
Ffrench, smiling at the recollection this brought to her 
mind. 

“ Yo’ see mother an’ me thinks a deal o’ Mester Mur- 
doch, because he is na one o’ th’ drinkin’ soart,” proceeded 
Janey. “ He’s th’ steady koind as is fond o’ books an’ th’ 


118 


“ HA WORTH'S: 


loike. He does na mak’ much at his trade, but he knows 
more than yo’d think for, to look at him.” 

“ That is good news,” said Miss Ffrench, cheerfully. 

Janey rested her chin upon her parcel, warming to the 
subject. 

“ I should na wonder if he getten to be a rich mon some 
o’ these days,” she went on. “ He’s getten th’ makin’s on 
it in him, if he has th’ luck an’ looks sharp about him. I 
often tell him he mun look sharp.” 

She became so communicative indeed, that Miss Ffrench 
found herself well entertained. She heard the details of 
Haworth’s history, the reports of his prosperity and grow- 
ing wealth, the comments his hands had made upon her- 
self, and much interesting news concerning the religious 
condition of Broxton and “ th’ chapel.” 

It was growing dusk when the interview ended, and 
when she went away Janey carried an additional bundle. 

“ Does tha alius dress i’ this road ? ” she had asked her 
hostess, and the question suggested to Miss Ffrench a 
whimsical idea. She took the child upstairs and gave her 
maid orders to produce all the cast-off finery she could 
find, and then stood by and looked on as Janey made her 
choice. 

“ She stood theer laughin’ while I picked th’ things 
out,” said Janey afterward. “ I dunnot know what she 
wur laughin’ at. Yo’ nivver know whether she’s makin’ 
game on you or not.” 

“ I dunnot see as theer wur owt to laugh at,” said Mrs. 
Briarley, indignantly. 

“ Nay,” said Janey, “ nor me neyther, but she does na 
laugh when theer’s owt to laugh at — that’s th’ queer part 
o’ it. She said as I could ha’ more things when I coom 
again. I would na go if it wur na fur that.” 


u HAWORTH & CO” 


119 


Even his hands found out at this time that Haworth was 
ill at ease. His worst side showed itself in his intercourse 
with them. He was overbearing and difficult to please. 
He found fault and lost his temper over trifles, and showed 
a restless, angry desire to assert himself. 

“ I’ll show you who’s master here, my lads,” he would 
say. “ I’ll ha’ no dodges. It’s Haworth that’s th’ head o’ 
this concern. Whoever comes in or out, this here’s ( Ha' 
worth’s.’ Clap that i’ your pipes and smoke it.” 

u Summat’s up,” said Floxham. “ Summat’s up. Mark 
yo’ that.” 

Murdoch looked on with no inconsiderable anxiety. 
The intercourse between himself and Haworth had been 
broken in upon. It had received its first check months 
before, and in these days neither was in the exact mood 
for a renewal of it. Haworth wore a forbidding air. His 
rough good-fellowship was a thing of the past. He made 
no more boisterous jokes, no more loud boasts. At times 
his silence was almost morose. Pie was not over civil even 
to Ffrench, who came oftener than ever, and whose manner 
was cheerful to buoyancy. 

Matters had remained in this condition for a couple of 
months, when, on his way home late one night, Murdoch’s 
attention was arrested by a light burning in the room used 
by the master of the Works as his office. 

He stopped in the road to look up at it. He could 
scarcely, at first, believe the evidence of his senses. The 
place had been closed and locked hours before, when 
Haworth had left it with Ffrench, with whom he was to 
dine. It was nearly midnight, and certainly an unlawful 
hour for such a light to show itself, but there it burned 
steadily amid the darkness of the night. 

“ It doesn’t seem likely that those who had reason to 


120 


UA WORTH'S: 


conceal themselves would set a light blazing,” Murdoch 
thought. “ But if there’s mischief at work there’s no 
time to waste.” 

There was only one thing to do, and he did it, making 
the best of his way to the spot. 

The gate was thrown open, and the door of entrance 
yielded to his hand. Inside, the darkness was profound, 
but when he found the passage leading to Haworth’s room 
he saw that the door was ajar and that the light still 
burned. On reaching this door he stopped short. There 
was no need to go in. It was Haworth himself who was 
in the room — Haworth, who lay with arms folded on the 
table, and his head resting upon them. 

Murdoch turned away, and as he did so the man heard 
him for the first time. He lifted his head and looked 
round. 

“ Who’s there ? ” he demanded. 

There was no help for it. Murdoch pushed the door 
open and stood before him. 

“ Murdoch,” he said. “ I saw the light, and it brought 
me up.” 

Haworth gave him a grudging look. 

“ Come in,” he said. 

“ Do you want me ? ” Murdoch asked. 

“ Aye,” he answered, dully, “ 1 think I do.” 

Murdoch stood and looked at him. He did not sit down. 
A mysterious sense of embarrassment held him in 
check. 

“ What is wrong ? ” he asked, in a lowered voice. He 
hardly knew it for his own. 

“Wrong?” echoed Haworth. “Naught. I’ve — been 
taking leave of the place. That’s all.” 

“ You have been doing what f ” said Murdoch. 


“ HAWORTH & GO.' 


121 


“ Taking leave of the place. I’ve given it up.” 

His visitor uttered a passionate ejaculation. 

“ You are mad ! ” he said. 

“ Aye,” bitterly. “ Mad enow.” 

The next instant a strange sound burst from him, — a 
terrible sound, forced back at its birth. His struggle to 
suppress it shook him from head to foot ; his hands 
clinched themselves as if each were a vise. Murdoch 
turned aside. 

When it was over, and the man raised his face, he 
was trembling still, and white with a kind of raging 
shame. 

“ Blast you ! ” he cried, “ if there’s ever aught in your 
face that minds me o’ this, I’ll — I’ll kill you ! ” 

This Murdoch did not answer at all. There was enough 
to say. 

“You are going to share it with Ffrench?” he 
said. 

“ Aye, with that fool. He’s been at me from the start. 
Naught would do him but he must have his try at it. Let 
him. He shall play second fiddle, by the Lord Harry ! ” 

He began plucking at some torn scraps of paper, and 
did not let them rest while he spoke. 

“ I’ve been over th’ place from top to bottom,” he said. 
“ I held out until to-night. To-night I give in, and as 
soon as I left ’em I came here. Ten minutes after it was 
done I’d have undone it if I could — I’d have undone it. 
But it’s done, and there’s an end on it.” 

He threw the scraps of paper aside and clenched his 
hand, speaking through his teeth. 

“ She’s never given me a word to hang on,” he said, 
“ and I’ve done it for her. I’ve give up what I worked 
for and boasted on, just to be brought nigher to her. She 
6 


122 


“ HA WORTH'S. 


knows I’ve done it, — she knows it, though she’s never 
owned it by a look, — and I’ll make that enough.” 

“ If you make your way with her,” said Murdoch, 
“ you have earned all you won.” 

“ Aye,” was the grim answer. “ I’ve earned it.” 

And soon after the light in the window went out, and 
they parted outside and went their separate ways in the 
dark. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


AN UNEXPECTED GUEST. 

Before the week’s end, all Broxton had heard the news. 
In the Works, before and after working hours, groups gath- 
ered together to talk it over. Haworth was going to c tak’ 
Ffrench in partner.’ It was hard to believe it, and the 
general opinion expressed was neither favorable nor com- 
plimentary. “Haworth and Ffrench ! ” said Floxham, in 
sarcastic mood. “ Haworth and Co., — an’ a noice chap 
Co. is to ha’ i’ a place. We’n ha’ patent silver-mounted 
back-action puddlin’-rakes afore long, lads, if Co. gets his 
way.” 

Upon the occasion of the installation of the new part- 
ner, however, there was a natural tendency to conviviality. 
Not that the ceremony in question was attended with any 
special manifestation on the part of the individuals most 
concerned. Ffrench’s appearance at the Works was its 
chief feature, but, the day’s labor being at an end, several 
gentlemen engaged in the various departments scorning 
to neglect an opportunity, retired to the “ Who’d ’a’ 
Thowt it,” and promptly rendered themselves insensible 
through the medium of beer, assisted by patriotic and 
somewhat involved speeches. 

Mr. Briarley, returning to the bosom of his family at a 
late hour, sat down by his fireside and wept copiously. 

u I’m a poor chap, Sararann,” he remarked. “ I shall 


124 


“ HAWORTH'S. : 


ne’er get took in partner by nobody. I’m not i’ luck loike 
some — an’ I nivver war, ’cep tin’ when I getten thee.” 

“ If tha’d keep thy nose out o’ th’ beer-mug tha’d do 
well enow,” said Mrs. Briarley. 

But this did not dispel Mr. Briarley ’s despondency. He 
only wept afresh. 

“ Hay, Sararann,” he said, “ it is na beer, it’s misfor- 
chin. I alius wur misforehnit — ’ceptin’ when I getten 
thee.” 

“Things is i’ a bad way,” he proceeded, afterward. 
“ Things is i’ a bad way. I nivver seed ’em i’ th’ reet leet 
till I heerd Foxy Gibbs mak’ his speech to-neet. Th’ 
more beer he getten th’ eleyquenter he wur. Theer’ll be 
trouble wi’ th’ backbone an’ sinoo, if theer is na summat 
done.” 

“ What art tha drivin’ at ? ” fretted his wife. a I canna 
mak’ no sense out o’ thee.” 

“ Canna tha ? ” he responded. “ Canna thee, Sararann ? 
Well, I dunnot wonder. It wur a good bit afore I 
straightened it out mysen. Happen I hannot getten 
things as they mout be yet. Theer wur a good deal o’ 
talk an’ a good deal o’ beer, an’ a man as has been mis- 
forchnit is loike to be slow.” 

After which he fell into a deep and untroubled slum- 
ber, and it being found impossible to rouse him, he spent 
the remainder of the night in Granny Dixon’s chair by 
the fire, occasionally startling the echoes of the silent 
room by a loud and encouraging “ Eer-eer ! ” 

During the following two weeks, Haworth did not go 
to the Ffrench’s. He spent his nights at his own house 
in dull and sullen mood. At the Works, he kept his word 
as regarded Ffrench. That gentleman’s lines had scarcely 


AN UNEXPECTED QUEST. 


125 


fallen in pleasant places. His partner was gruff and 
authoritative, and not given to enthusiasm. There were 
times when only his good-breeding preserved the outward 
smoothness of affairs. 

“ But,” he said to his daughter, “ one does not expect 
good manners of a man like that. They are not his 
forte” 

At the end of the two weeks there came one afternoon 
a message to Haworth in his room. Murdoch was with 
him when it arrived. He read it, and, crushing it in his 
hand, threw it into the fire. 

“ They’re a nice lot,” he said with a short laugh, “ com- 
ing down on a fellow like that.” 

And then an oath broke from him. 

“ I’ve give up two or three things,” he said, “and 
they’re among ’em. It’s th’ last time, and ” 

He took down his overcoat and began to put it on. 

“ Tell ’em,” he said to Murdoch as he went out,— “ tell 
’em I’m gone home, and sha’n’t be back till morning. 
Keep the rest to yourself.” 

He went out, shutting the door with a bang. Murdoch 
stood at the window and watched him drive away in his 

gig- 

He was scarcely out of sight before a carriage appeared ? 
moving at a very moderate pace. It was a bright though 
cold day, and the top of the carriage was thrown back, 
giving the occupant the benefit of the sunshine. The 
occupant in question was Bachel Ffrench, who looked up 
and bestowed upon the figure at the window a slight ges- 
ture of recognition. 

Murdoch turned away with an impatient movement 
after she had passed. “ Booh ! ” he said, angrily. “ He’s 
a fool.” 


126 


“HAWORTH'S. 


By midnight of the same day Haworth had had time to 
half forget his scruples. He had said to his visitors what 
* he had said to Murdoch, with his usual frankness. 

“ It’s the last time. We’ve done with each other after 
this, you know. It’s the last time. Make the most on it.” 

There was a kind of desperate exultation in his humor. 
If he had dared, he would have liked to fling aside every 
barrier of restraint and show himself at his worst, defying 
the world ; but fear held him in check, as nothing else 
would have done, — an abject fear of consequences. 

By midnight the festivities were at their height. He 
himself was boisterous with wine and excitement. He 
had stood up at the head of his table and made a blatant 
speech and roared a loud song, and had been laughed at 
and applauded. 

“ Make the most on it,” he kept saying. “ It’ll be over 
by cock-crow. It’s a bit like a chap’s funeral.” 

He had just seated himself after this, and was pouring 
out a great glass of wine, when a servant entered the 
room and spoke to him in a low tone. 

“ A lady, sir, as come in a cab, and ” And then the 

door opened again, and every one turned to look at the 
woman who stood upon the threshold. She was a small 
woman, dressed in plain country fashion ; she had white 
hair, and a fresh bloom on her cheeks, and her eyes were 
bright with timorous excitement and joy. 

“ Jem,” she faltered, “ it’s me, my dear.” 

Haworth stared at her as if stunned. At first his brain 
was not clear enough to take in the meaning of her pres- 
ence, but as she approached him and laid her basket down 
and took his hand, the truth revealed itself to him. 

“ It’s me, my dear,” she repeated, “ accordin’ to promise 
I didn’t know you had comp’ny.” 


AN UNEXPECTED QUEST. 


127 


She turned to those who sat about the table and made 
a little rustic courtesy. A dead calm seemed to take pos- 
session of one and all. They did not glance at each other, 
but looked at her as she stood by Haworth, holding his 
hand, waiting for him to kiss her. 

“ He’s so took by surprise,” she said, “ he doesn’t know 
what to say. He wasn’t expecting me so soon,” laughing 
proudly. “ That’s it. I’m his mother, ladies and gentle- 
men.” 

Haworth made a sign to the servant who waited. 

“ Bring a plate here,” he said. <l She’ll sit down with 
us.” 

The order was obeyed, and she sat down at his right 
hand, fluttered and beaming. 

“ You’re very good not to mind me,” she said. “ I 
didn’t think of there bein’ comp’ny — and gentry, too.” 

She turned to a brightly dressed girl at her side and 
spoke to her. 

“ He’s my only son, Miss, and me a widder, an’ he’s 
allers been just what you see him now. He was good from 
the time he was a infant. He’s been a pride an’ a com- 
fort to me since the day he were born.” 

The girl stared at her with a look which was almost a 
look of fear. She answered her in a hushed voice. 

“ Yes, ma’am,” she said. 

“ Yes, Miss,” happily. “ There’s not many mothers 
as can say what I can. He’s never been ashamed of me, 
hasn’t Jem. If I’d been a lady born, he couldn’t have 
showed me more respect than he has, nor been more 
kinder.” 

The girl did not answer this time. She looked down 
at her plate, and her hand trembled as she pretended to 
occupy herself with the fruit upon it. Then she stole a 


128 


“HAWORTH'S. 


glance at the rest, — a glance at once guilty, and defiant of 
the smile she expected to see. But the smile was not 
there. 

The only smile to be seen was upon the face of the lit- 
tle country woman who regarded them all with innocent 
reverence, and was in such bright good spirits that she 
did not even notice their silence. 

“ I’ve had a long journey,” she said, u an’ I’ve been 
pretty flustered, through not bein’ used to travel. I don’t 
know how I’d have bore up at first — bein’ flustered so — if 
it hadn’t have been for everybody bein’ so good to me. 
I’d mention my son when I had to ask anything, an’ they’d 
smile as good-natured as could be, an’ tell me in a minute.” 

The multiplicity of new dishes and rare wine bewil- 
dered her, but she sat through the repast simple and un- 
abashed. 

“ There’s some as wouldn’t like me bein’ so ignorant,” 
she said, “ but Jem doesn’t mind.” 

The subject of her son’s virtues was an inexhaustible 
one. The silence about her only gave her courage and 
eloquence. His childish strength and precocity, his 
bravery, his good temper, his generous ways, were her 
themes. 

“ He come to me in time of trouble,” she said, “ an’ he 
made it lighter — an’ he’s been makin’ it lighter ever 
since. Who’d have thought that a simple body like me 
would ever have a grand home like this — and it earned 
and bought by my own son ? I beg your pardon, ladies 
and gentlemen,” looking round with happy tears. “ I 
didn’t go to do it, an’ there’s no reason for it, except me 
bein’ took a little by surprise through not bein’ exactly 
prepared for such a grand place an’ gentlefolk’s comp’ny^ 
as is so good an’ understands a mother’s feelin’s.” 


AN UNEXPECTED QUEST. 


129 


When the repast was at an end, she got up and made 
her little courtesy to them all again. If the gentlefolk 
would excuse her, she would bid them good-night. She 
was tired and not used to late hours. 

To the girl who had sat at her side she gave an admiring 
smile of farewell. 

u You’re very pretty, my dear,” she said, “ if I may 
take the liberty, bein’ a old woman. Good-night ! God 
bless you ! ” 

When she was gone, the girl lay forward, her face hid- 
den upon her arms on the table. For a few seconds no 
one spoke ; then Haworth looked up from his plate, on 
which he had kept his eyes fixed, and broke the stillness. 

“ If there’d been a fellow among you that had dared to 
show his teeth,” he said, “ I’d have wrung his cursed 
neck ! ” 

6 * 


CHAPTEK XX. 


MISS FFRENOH MAKES A CALL. 

The following Sunday morning, the congregation of 
Broxton Chapel was thrown into a state of repressed ex- 
citement. Haworth’s carriage, with a couple of servants, 
brought his mother to enjoy Brother Hixon’s eloquence. 
To the presence of the carriage and servants Haworth had 
held firm. Upon the whole, he would have preferred 
that she should have presented herself at the door of 
Broxton Old Church, which was under the patronage of 
the county families and honored by their presence ; but 
the little woman had exhibited such uneasiness at the un- 
folding of his plan of securing the largest and handsomest 
pew for her that he had yielded the point. 

“ I’ve always been a chapel-goin’ woman, Jem,” she had 
said, “ an’ I wouldn’t like to change. An’ I should feel 
freer where there’s not so many gentlefolk.” 

The carriage and the attending servants she had sub- 
mitted to with simple obedience. There were no rented 
pews in Broxton Chapel, and she took her seat among the 
rest, innocently unconscious of the sensation her appear- 
ance created. Every matron of the place had had time to 
learn who she was, and to be filled with curiosity concern- 
ing her. 

Janey Briarley, by whose side she chanced to sit, knew 


MISS FFRENCH MAKES A GALL. 


131 


more than all the rest, and took her under her protection 
at once. 

“ Tha’st getten th’ wrong hymn-book,” she whispered 
audibly, having glanced at the volume the servant handed 
to her. “We dunnot use Wesley aw th’ toime. We use 
Mester Hixon’s 4 Songs o’ Grace.’ Tha can look on wi’ 
me.” 

Her delicate attentions and experience quite won Dame 
Haworth’s motherly heart. 

44 1 never see a sharper little thing,” she said, admiringly, 
afterward, 44 nor a old-fashioneder. There wasn’t a tex’ 
as she didn’t find immediate, nor yet a hymn.” 

“Bless us!” said Mrs. Briarley, laboriously lugging 
the baby homeward. 44 An’ to think o’ her bein’ th’ mis- 
tress o’ that big house, wi’ aw them chaps i’ livery at her 
beck an’ call. Why, she’s nowt but a common body, Jane 
Ann. She thanked thee as simple as ony other woman 
mought ha’ done ! She’s noan quality. She’d getten a 
silk gown on, but it wur a black un, an’ not so mich as a 
feather i’ her bonnet. I’d ha’ had a feather, if I’d ha’ 
been her — a feather sets a body off. But that’s alius th’ 
road wi’ folk as has brass — they nivver know how to 
spend it.” 

44 Hay,” said Janey, 44 she is na quality ; but she’s getten 
a noice way wi’ her. Haworth is na quality hissen.” 

44 She wur a noice-spoken owd body,” commented Mrs. 
Briarley. 44 Seemt loike she took a fancy to thee.” 

Janey turned the matter over mentally, with serious 
thrift. 

44 1 should na moind it if she did,” she replied. 44 She’ll 
ha’ plenty to gi’ away.” 

It was not long before they knew her well. She was a 
cheerful and neighborly little soul, and through the years 


132 


HAWORTH'S : 


of her prosperity had been given to busy and kindly 
charities. 

In her steadfast and loving determination to please her 
son, she gave up her rustic habit of waiting upon herself, 
and wore her best gown every day, in spite of pangs of 
conscience. She rode instead of walked, and made cour- 
ageous efforts to become accustomed to the size and mag- 
nificence of the big rooms, but, notwithstanding her faith- 
fulness, she was a little restless. 

“ Not bein’ used to it,” she said, a I get a little lonesome 
or so — sometimes, though not often, my dear.” 

She had plenty of time to feel at a loss. Her leisure 
was not occupied by visitors. Broxton discussed her and 
smiled at her, rather good-naturedly than otherwise. It 
was not possible to suspect her of any ill, but it was 
scarcely to be anticipated that people would go to see her. 
One person came, however, facing public opinion with her 
usual calmness, — Rachel Ffrench, who presented herself 
one day and made her a rather long call. 

On hearing the name announced, the little woman rose 
tremulously. She was tremulous because she was afraid 
that she could not play her part as mistress of her son’s 
household to his honor. When Miss Ffrench advanced, 
holding out her gloved hand, she gave her a startled up- 
ward glance and dropped a little courtesy. 

For a moment, she forgot to ask her to be seated. When 
she recollected herself, and they sat down opposite to each 
other, she could at first only look at her visitor in silence. 

But Miss Ffrench was wholly at ease. She enjoyed the 
rapturous wonder she had excited with all her heart. She 
was very glad she had come. 

“ It must be very pleasant for Mr. Haworth to have 
you here,” she said. 


MISS FFRENCE MAKES A CALL. 


133 


The woman started. A flush of joy rose upon her 
withered face. Her comprehension of her son’s prosperity 
had been a limited one. Somehow she had never thought 
of this. Here was a beautiful, high-bred woman to whom 
he must be in a manner near, since she spoke of him in 
this way — as if he had been a gentleman born. 

“Jem?” she faltered, innocently. “Yes, ma’am. I 
hope so. He’s — he’s told me so.” 

Then she added, in some hurry : 

“ Hot that I can be much comp’ny to him — it isn’t that ; 
if he hadn’t been what he is, and had the friends he has, I 
couldn’t be much comp’ny for him. An’ as it is, it’s not 
likely he can need a old woman as much as his goodness 
makes him say he does.” 

Rachel Ffrench regarded her with interest. 

“ He is very good,” she remarked, “ and has a great 
many friends, I dare say. My father admires him greatly.” 

“ Thank you, ma’am,” brightly, “ though there’s no one 
could help it. His goodness to me is more than I can tell, 
an’ it’s no wonder that others sees it in him an’ is fond of 
him accordin’.” 

“ Ho, it’s no wonder,” in a tone of gentle encourage- 
ment. 

The flush upon the withered cheek deepened, and the 
old eyes lit up. 

“ He’s thirty-two year old, Miss,” said the loving crea- 
ture, “ an’ the time’s to come yet when he’s done a wrong 
or said a harsh word. He was honest an’ good as a child, 
an’ he’s honest an’ good as a man. His old mother can 
say it from the bottom of her full heart.” 

“ It’s a very pleasant thing to be able to say,” remarked 
her visitor. 

“ It’s the grateful pride of my life that I can say it,” 


134 


IIA WORTH'S : 


with fresh tenderness. “An’ to think that prosperity 
goes with it too. I’ve said to myself that I wasn’t worthy 
of it, because I couldn’t never be grateful enough. He 
might have been prosperous, and not what he is. Many a 
better woman than me has had that grief to bear, an’ I’ve 
been spared it. 

When Miss Ffrench returned to her carriage she wore 
a reflective look. When she had seated herself comfort- 
ably, she spoke aloud : 

“ Ho, there are ten chances to one that she will never 
see the other side at all. There is not a man or woman 
in Broxton who would dare to tell her. I would not do it 
myself.” 

When Haworth returned at night he heard the particu- 
lars of the visit, as he had known he should when Ffrench 
told him that it was his daughter’s intention to call that day. 

“ The beautifulest young lady my old eyes ever saw, 
my dear,” his mother said again and again. “An’ to 
think of her cornin’ to see me, as if I’d been a lady like 
herself.” 

Haworth spoke but little. He seldom said much in 
these days. He sat at the table drinking his after-dinner 
wine, and putting a question now and then. 

“ What did she say ? ” he asked. 

She stopped to think. 

“ P’raps it was me that said most,” she answered, 
“ though I didn’t think so then. She asked a question or 
so an’ seemed to like to listen. I was tellin’ her what a 
son you’d been to me, an’ how happy I was an’ how thank- 
ful I was.” 

“ She’s not one that says much,” he said, without look- 
ing up from the glass on which his eyes had been fixed. 
“ That’s her way.” 


MISS FFRENGH MAKES A GALL. 


135 


She replied with a question, put timidly. 

“You’ve knowed her a good bit, I dare say, my 
dear ? ” 

“ No,” uneasily. “ A six-month or so, that’s all.” 

“ But it’s been long enough for her to find out that what 
I said to her was true. I didn’t tell her what was new to 
her, my dear. I see that by her smile, an’ the kind way 
she listened. She’s got a beautiful smile, Jem, an’ a 
beautiful sweet face.” 

When they parted for the night, he drew from his 
pocket a bank-note and handed it to her. 

“ I’ve been thinking,” he said, awkwardly, “ that it 
would be in your line to give summat now and then to 
some o’ the poor lot that’s so thick here. There’s plenty 
on ’em, an’ p’r’aps it wouldn’t be a bad thing. There’s 
not many that’s fond of givin’. Let’s set the gentry a 
fashion.” 

“ Jem ! ” she said. “ My dear ! there isn’t nothin’ that 
would make me no happier — nothin’ in the world.” 

“ It won’t do overmuch good, may be,” he returned. 
“ More than half on ’em don’t deserve it, but give it to 
’em if you’ve a fancy for it. I don’t grudge it.” 

There were tears of joy in her eyes. She took his hand 
and held it, fondling it. 

“ I might have knowed it,” she said, “ an’ I don’t de- 
serve it for holdin’ back an’ feelin’ a bit timid, as I have 
done. I’ve thought of it again and again, when I’ve been 
a trifle lonesome with you away. There’s many a poor 
woman as is hard -worked that I might help, and children 
too, may be, me bein’ so fond of ’em.” 

She drew nearer still and laid her hand on his arm. 

“I always was fond of ’em,” she said, “always — an’ I’ve 
thought that, sometimes, my dear, there might be little 


136 


“ HAWORTH'S : 


things here as I might help to care for, an’ as would be 
fond of me. 

“ If there was children,” she went on, “ I should get 
used to it quick. They’d take away the — the bigness, an’ 
make me forget it.” 

But he did not answer nor look at her, though she felt 
his arm tremble. 

“ I think they’d be fond of me,” she said, “ them an’ — 
an’ her too, whomsoever she might be. She’d be a lady, 
Jem, but she wouldn’t mind my ways, I dare say, an’ I’d 
do my best with all my heart. I’d welcome her, an’ give 
up my place here to her, joyful. It’s a place fitter for a 
lady such as she would be — God bless her! — than for 
me.” And she patted his sleeve and bent her face that 
she might kiss his hand. 


CHAPTER XXI. 


IN WHICH MRS. BRIARLEY 5 S POSITION IS DELICATE. 

So the poor and hard- worked of the town came to know 
her well, and it must also be confessed that others less 
deserving learned to know her also, and proceeded, with 
much thrift and dexterity, to make hay while the sun 
shone. Haworth held to his bargain, even going to the 
length of lavishness. 

“ Haworth gives it to her ? ” was said with marked in- 
credulity at the outset. a Nay, lad, tha canna mak’ me 
believe that.” 

Mrs. Haworth’s earliest visit was made to the Briarley 
cottage. She came attired in her simplest gown, the 
week after her appearance at the Chapel, and her en- 
trance into the household created such an excitement as 
somewhat disturbed her. The children were scattered 
with wild hustling and scurry, while Janey dragged off 
her apron in the temporary seclusion offered by the door. 
Mrs. Briarley, wiping the soap-suds from her arms, hur- 
ried forward with apologetic nervousness. She dropped 
a courtesy, scarcely knowing what words of welcome 
would be appropriate for the occasion, and secretly spec- 
ulating on possible results. 

But her visitor’s demeanor was not overpowering. She 
dropped a courtesy herself, — a kindly and rustic obei- 
sance. She even looked somewhat timid. 


138 


“ HA WORTH'S.” 


“ I’m Mr. Haworth’s mother, ma’am,” she faltered, 
“an’ — an’ thank you kindly,” taking the seat offered. 
“ Don’t put yourself out, ma’am, for me. There wasn’t 
no need to send the children away, — not at all, me bein’ 
partial to ’em, an’ also used.” 

The next instant she gave a timid start. 

“ G-i’ me my best cap ! ” cried a stentorian voice. 
“ Gi’ me my best cap ! Wheer is it ? Gi’ me my best 
cap ! ” 

Granny Dixon’s high basket-backed chair had been 
placed in the shadow of the chimney-corner for the better 
enjoyment of her midday nap, and, suddenly aroused by 
some unknown cause, she had promptly become conscious 
of the presence of a visitor and the dire need of some 
addition to her toilet. She sat up, her small-boned figure 
trembling with wrath, her large eyes shining. 

“ Gi’ me my best cap ! ” she demanded. “ Gi’ it 
me ! ” 

Mrs. Briarley disappeared into the adjacent room, and 
came out with the article required in her hand. It was 
a smart cap, with a lace border and blue bows on it. 

“ Put it on ! ” shouted Mrs. Dixon. “ An’ put it on 
straight ! ” 

Mrs. Briarley obeyed nervously. 

“She’s my mester’s grandmother,” she exclaimed, 
plaintively. “ Yo’ munnot moind her, missus.” 

Granny Dixon fixed her eyes upon the stranger. 

“ She getten it,” she proclaimed. “ I did na. I’d 
nivver ha’ bowt th’ thing i’ th’ world. Blue nivver wur 
becomin’ to me. She getten it. She nivver had no 
taste.” 

“ Aye,” said Mrs. Briarley, “ I did get it fur thee, tha 
nasty owd piece, but tha’lt nivver catch me at th’ loike 


MRS. BRIARLEY' S POSITION IS DELICATE. 139 


again, — givin’ thee presents, when I hannot a bit o’ finery 
to my name.” 

“ It alius set me off — red did,” cried Mrs. Dixon. “ It 
wur my fav’rite color when I wur a lass, — an’ I wur a 
good-lookin’ lass, too, seventy year ago.” 

“ I’m sure you was, ma’am,” responded Mrs. Haworth. 
“ I’ve no doubt on it.” 

“ She canna hear thee,” said Mrs. Briarley. “ She’s as 
deaf as a post — th’ ill-tempert owd besom,” and proceed- 
ed to give a free translation at the top of her lungs. 

“ She says tha mun ha’ been han’some. She says ony- 
body could see that to look at thee.” 

“ Aye,” sharply. “ She’s reet, too. I wur, seventy year 
ago. Who is she ? ” 

“ She’s Mester Haworth’s mother.” 

“ Mester Haworth’s mother ? ” promptly. “ Did na tha 
tell me he wur a rich mon ? ” 

“ Aye, I did.” 

“Well, then, what does she dress i’ that road fur* 
She’s noan quality. She does na look much better nor 
thee.” 

“ Eh ! bless us ! ” protested Mrs. Briarley. “ What’s a 
body to do wi’ her ? ” 

“Don’t mind her, ma’am,” said Mrs. Haworth. “It 
don’t do no harm. A old person’s often sing’lar. It 
don’t trouble me.” 

Then Janey, issuing from her retirement in compara- 
tively full dress, was presented with due ceremony. 

“ It wur her as fun thy place i’ th’ hymn-book,” said 
Mrs. Briarley. “ She’s a good bit o’ help to me, is Jane 
Ann.” 

It seemed an easy thing afterward to pour forth her 
troubles, and she found herslf so far encouraged by her 


140 


HA WORTH'S. 


visitor’s naive friendliness that she was even more elo< 
quent than usual. 

u Theer’s trouble ivvery wheer,” she said, u an’ I dare 
say tha has thy share, missus, fur aw thy brass.” 

Politeness forbade a more definite reference to the 
“ goin’s-on ” which had called forth so much virtuous in- 
dignation on the part of the Broxton matrons. She felt 
it but hospitable to wait until her guest told her own story 
of tribulation. 

But Mrs. Haworth sat smiling placidly. 

“ I’ve seen it in my day,” she said ; “ an’ it were heavy 
enough too, my dear, an’ seemed heavier than it were, 
p’r’aps, through me bein’ a young thing an’ helpless, but 
I should be a ungrateful woman if I didn’t try to forget 
now as it had ever been. A woman as has such a son as 
I have — one that’s prospered an’ lived a pure, good life 
an’ never done a willful wrong, an’ has won friends an’ 
respect everywhere — has enough happiness to help her 
forget troubles that’s past an’ gone.” 

Mrs. Briarley stopped half-way to the ground in the 
act of picking up Granny Dixon’s discarded head-gear. 
Her eyes were wide open, her jaw fell a little. But her 
visitor went on without noticing her. 

“ Though, for the matter of that,” she said, “ I dare say 
there’s not one on you as doesn’t know his ways, an’ 
couldn’t tell me of some of his goodness as I should never 
find out from him.” 

“ Wheer art tha puttin’ my cap ? ” shouted Granny 
Dixon “What art tha doin’ wi’ my cap? Does tha 
think because I’ve got a bit o’ brass, I can hot th’ bake- 
oven wi’ head-dresses ? ” 

Mrs. Briarley had picked up the cap, and was only 
rescued by this timely warning from the fatal imprudence 


MBS. BRIARLEY'S POSITION IS DELICATE. 141 

of putting it in the fire and stirring it violently with the 
poker. 

“ Art tha dazeder than common \ ” shrieked the old 
woman. “ Has tha gone daft ? What art tha starin’ at ? ” 

“I am na starin’ at nowt,” said Mrs. Briarley, with a 
start. “ 1 — I wur hearkenin’ to the lady here, an’ I did 
na think o’ what I wur doin’.” 

She did not fully recover herself during the whole of 
her visitor’s stay, and, in fact, several times lapsed into 
the same meditative condition. When Haworth’s charita- 
ble intentions were made known to her, she stopped jolt- 
ing the baby and sat in wild confusion. 

“ Did tha say as he wur goin’ to gi’ thee money ? ” she 
exclaimed , — u money to gi’ away ? ” 

“ He said he’d give it without a grudge,” said his 
mother, proudly. “Without a grudge, if it pleased me. 
That’s his way, my dear. It were his way from the time 
he were a boy, an’ worked so hard to give me a comforta- 
ble home. He give it, he said, without a grudge.” 

“ Jane Ann,” said Mrs. Briarley, standing at the door 
to watch her out of sight, — “Jane Ann, what dost tha 
think o’ that theer ? ” 

She said it helplessly, clutching at the child on her hip 
with a despairing grasp. 

“ Did tha hear her ? ” she demanded. “ She wur talk- 
in’ o’ Haworth, an’ she wur pridin’ hersen on th’ son he’d 
been to her, an’ — an’ th’ way he’d lived. Th’ cold sweat 
broke out aw over me. Ho wonder I wur for puttin’ th’ 
cap i’ th’ fire. Lord ha’ mercy on us ! ” 

But Janey regarded the matter from a more practical 
stand -point. 

“ He has 11a treated her ill,” she said. “ Happen he is 
na so bad after aw. Did tha hear what she said about th’ 
money ? ” 


CHAPTER XXII. 


AGAIN. 

u Theer’s a chap,” it was said of Murdoch with some 
disdain among the malcontents, — “ theer’s a chap as 
coom here to work for his fifteen bob a week, an’ now 
he’s hand i’ glove wi’ th’ mesters an’s getten a shop o’ his 
own.” 

The “ shop ” in question had, however, been only a very 
simple result of circumstances. In times of emergency it 
had been discovered that “ th’ ’Merican chap ” was an in- 
dividual of resources. Floxham had discovered this early, 
and, afterward, the heads of other departments. If a ma- 
chine or tool was out of order, “ Tak’ it to th’ ’Merican 
chap an’ he’ll fettle it,” said one or another. And the 
time had never been when the necessary “ fettling ” had 
not been accomplished. In his few leisure moments, 
Murdoch would go from room to room, asking questions 
or looking on in silence at the work being carried on. 
Often his apparently hap-hazard and desultory examina- 
tions finally resulted in some suggestion which simplified 
things astonishingly. He had a fancy for simplifying and 
improving the appliances he saw in use, and this, too, with- 
out any waste of words. 

But gradually rough models of these trifles and hastily 
made drawings collected in the corner of the common 


AGAIN. 


143 


work-room which had fallen to Murdoch, and Haworth’s 
attention was drawn toward them. 

“ What wi’ moddles o’ this an’ moddles o’ that,” Flox 
ham remarked, “we’ll ha’ to mak’ a flittin’ afore long. 
Theer’ll be no room fur us, nor th’ engines neyther.” 

Haworth turned to the things and looked them over 
one by one, touching some of them dubiously, some care- 
lessly, some without much comprehension. 

“ Look here,” he said to Murdoch, “ there’s a room nigh 
mine that’s not in use. I don’t like to be at close quarters 
with every chap, but you can bring your traps up there. 
It’ll be a place to stow ’em an’ do your bits o’ jobs when 
you’re in the humor.” 

The same day the change was made, and before leav- 
ing the Works, Haworth came in to look around. Throw- 
ing himself into a chair, he glanced about him with a 
touch of curiosity. 

“ They’re all your own notions, these ? ” he said. 

Murdoch assented. 

“They are of not much consequence,” he answered. 
“They are only odds and ends that fell into my hands 
somehow when they needed attention. I like that kind 
of work, you know.” 

“Aye,” responded Haworth, “I dare say. But most 
chaps would have had more to say about doin’ ’em than 
you have.” 

Not long after Ffrench’s advent a change was made. 

“If you’ll give up your old job, and take to looking 
sharp after the machinery and keeping the chaps that 
run it up to their work,” said Haworth, “ you can do it. 
It’ll be a better shop than the other and give you more 
time. And it’ll be a saving to the place in the end.” 

So the small room containing his nondescript collection 


144 


HA WORTHS. 


became his headquarters, and Murdoch’s position was a 
more responsible one. He found plenty of work, but he 
had more time, as Haworth had prophesied, and he had 
also more liberty. 

“ Yo’re getten on,” said Janey Briarley. “ Yo’re getten 
more wage an’ less work, an’ yo’re one o’ th’ mesters, i’ a 
way. Yo’ go wi’ th’ gentlefolk a good bit, too. Feyther 
says Ffrench mak’s hissen as thick wi’ yo’ as if yo’ wur a 
gentleman yorsen. Yo’ had yore supper up theer last 
neet. Did she set i’ th’ room an’ talk wi’ yo’ ? ” 

“ Yes,” he answered. It was not necessary to explain 
who “ she ” was. 

“Well,” said Janey, “she would na do that if she did 
na think more o’ yo’ nor if yo’ were a common chap. 
She’s pretty grand i’ her ways. What did yo’ talk 
about ? ” 

“It would be hard to tell now,” he replied. “We 
talked of several things.” 

“Aye, but what I wanted to know wur whether she 
talked to thee loike she’d talk to a gentlemon, — whether 
she made free wi’ thee or not.” 

“I have never seen her talk to a gentleman,” he 
said. 

“ How does she talk to Haworth ? ” 

“ I have never seen her talk to him either. We have 
never been there at the same time.” 

This was true. It had somehow chanced that they had 
never met at the house. Perhaps Rachel Ffrench knew 
why. She had found Broxton dull enough to give her an 
interest in any novelty of emotion or experience. She 
disliked the ugly town, with its population of hard- 
worked and unpicturesque people. She hated the quiet, 
well regulated, well-bred county families with candor and 


AGAIN. 


145 


vivacity. She had no hesitation in announcing her dis- 
taste and weariness. 

u I detest them all,” she once said calmly to Murdoch. 
“ I detest them.” 

She made the best of the opportunities for enlivenment 
which lay within her grasp. She was not averse to Ha- 
worth’s presenting himself again and again, sitting in rest- 
less misery in the room with her, watching her every 
movement, drinking in her voice, struggling to hold him- 
self in check, and failing and growing sullen and silent, 
and going away, carrying his wretchedness with him. She 
never encouraged him to advance by any word or look, 
but he always returned again, to go through the same self- 
torture and humiliation, and she always knew he would. 
She even derived some unexciting entertainment from her 
father’s plans for the future. He had already new meth- 
ods and processes to discuss. He had a fancy for estab- 
lishing a bank in the town, and argued the advisability of 
the scheme with much fervor and brilliancy. Without 
a bank in which the “ hands ” could deposit their earnings, 
and which should make the town a sort of center, and add 
importance to its business ventures, Broxton was noth- 
ing. 

The place was growing, and the people of the sur- 
rounding villages were drawn toward it when they had 
business to transact. They were beginning to buy and 
sell in its market, and to look to its increasing population 
for support. The farmers would deposit their funds, the 
shop-keepers theirs, the “ hands ” would follow their ex- 
ample, and in all likelihood it would prove, in the end, a 
gigantic success. 

Haworth met his enthusiasms with stolid indifference. 
Sometimes he did not listen at all, sometimes he laughed 
7 


146 


HA WORTH'S. 


a short, heavy laugh, sometimes he flung him off with a 
rough speech. But in spite of this, there were changes 
gradually made in the Works, — trifling changes, of which 
Haworth was either not conscious, or which he disdained 
to notice. He lost something of his old masterful thor- 
oughness ; he was less regular in his business habits ; he 
was prone to be tyrannical by fits and starts. 

“Go to Ffrench,” he said, roughly, to one of the 
“ hands,” on one occasion : and though before he had 
reached the door he was called back, the man did not 
forget the incident. 

Miss Ffrench looked on at all of this with a great deal 
of interest. 

“ He does not care for the place as he did,” she said to 
Murdoch. “ He does not like to share his power with 
another man. It is a nightmare to him.” 

By this time, she had seen Murdoch the oftener of the 
two. Mr. Ffrench’s fancy for him was more enthusiastic 
than his fancy for the young man from Manchester or the 
Cumberland mechanic. He also found him useful, and 
was not chary of utilizing him. In time, the servants of 
the house ceased to regard him as an outsider, and were 
surprised when he was absent for a few days. 

“We have a fellow at our place whom you will hear of 
some of these days,” Ffrench said to his friends. “ He 
spends his evenings with me often.” 

“Ffrench has taken a great fancy to thee, lad,” Ha- 
worth said, drily. “ He says you’re goin’ to astonish us 
some o’ these days.” 

“ Does he ? ” Murdoch answered. 

“ Aye. He’s got a notion that you’re holding on to 
summat on the quiet, and that it’ll come out when we’re 
not expecting it.” 


AGAIN. 


147 


They were in the little work-room together, and Mur- 
doch, leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped 
behind his head, looked before him without replying, ex- 
cept by a slight knitting of his brows. 

Haworth laughed harshly. 

“ Confound him for a fool ! ” he said. “ I’m sick of 
the chap, with his talk. He’ll stir me up some o’ these 
days.” 

Then he looked up at his companion. 

“He has you up there every night or so,” he said. 
“ What does he want of you ? ” 

“ Never the same thing twice,” said Murdoch. 

“ Do you — always see her ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

The man moved in his seat, a sullen red rising to his 
forehead. 

“ What — has she to say ? ” he asked. 

Murdoch turned about to confront him. He spoke in 
a low voice, and slowly. 

“ Do you want to know,” he said, “ whether she treats 
me as she would treat another man ? Is that it ? ” 

“Aye,” was the grim answer, “summat o’ that sort, 
lad.” 

Murdoch left his chair. He uttered half a dozen 
words hoarsely. 

“Come up to the house some night and judge for 
yourself,” he said. 

He went out of the room without looking back. It was 
Saturday noon, and he had the half-day of leisure before 
him, but he did not turn homeward. He made his way 
to the high road and struck out upon it. He had no 
definite end in view, at first, except the working off of his 
passionate excitement, but when, after twenty minutes’ 


148 


“HAWORTH' 8.' 


walk he came within sight of Broxton Chapel and its 
grave-yard his steps slackened, and when he reached the 
gate, he stopped a moment and pushed it open and 
turned in. 

It was a quiet little place, with an almost rustic air, of 
which even the small, ugly chapel could not rob it. The 
grass grew long upon the mounds of earth and swayed 
softly in the warm wind. Only common folk lay there, 
and there were no monuments and even few slabs. Mur- 
doch glanced across the sun-lit space to the grass-covered 
mound of which he had thought when he stopped at the 
gateway. 

He had not thought of meeting any one, and at the first 
moment the sight of a figure standing at the grave-side in 
the sunshine was something of a shock to him. He went 
forward more slowly, even with some reluctance, though 
he had recognized at once that the figure was that of 
Christian Murdoch. 

She stood quite still, looking down, not hearing him 
until he was close upon her. She seemed startled when 
she saw him. 

“ Why did you come here ? ” she asked. 

“ I don’t know,” he answered. “ I needed quiet, I sup- 
pose, and the place has a quiet look. Why did you come ? ” 

“ It is not the first time I have been,” she said. “ I 
come here often.” 

“ You !” he said. “Why?” 

She pointed to the mound at her feet. 

“ Because he is here,” she said, “ and I have learned to 
care for him.” 

She knelt down and laid her hand upon the grass, and 
he remembered her emotion in the strange scene which 
had occurred before.” 


AGAIN. 


149 


“ I know him very well,” she said. “ I know him.” 

“You told me that I would not understand,” he said. 
“ It is true that I don’t yet ” 

Suddenly there were tears in her eyes and in her voice. 

“ He does not seem a dead man to me,” she said. “ He 
never will.” 

“ I do not think,” he answered, heavily, “ that his life 
seems at an end to any of us.” 

“ Not to me,” she repeated. “ I have thought of him 
until I have seemed to grow near to him, and to know 
what his burden was, and how patiently he bore it. I 
have never been patient. I have rebelled always, and so 
it has gone to my heart all the more.” 

Murdoch looked down upon the covering sod with a 
pang. 

“ He did bear it patiently,” he said, “ at the bitterest 
and worst.” 

“ I know that,” she replied. “ I have been sure of it.” 

“ I found some papers in my room when I first came,” 
she went on. “ Some of them were plans he had drawn 
thirty years ago. He had been very patient and constant 
with them. He had drawn the same thing again and 
again. Often he had written a few words upon them, 
and they helped me to understand. After I had looked 
them over I could not forget. They haunted me and 
came back to me. I began to care for him, and put things 
together until all was real.” 

Then she added, slowly and in a lowered voice : 

“ I have even thought that if he had lived he would 
have been fond of me. 1 don’t know why, but I have 
thought that perhaps he would.” 

For the first time in his knowledge of her, Murdoch saw 
in her the youth he had always missed. Her dark and 


150 


“HAWORTH'S. 


bitter young face was softened; for the moment she 
seemed almost a child, — even though a child whose life 
had been clouded by the shadow of sin and wrong. 

“ I think — he would,” he said, slowly. 

“ And I have got into the habit of coming here when I 
was lonely or — at my worst.” 

“ You are lonely often, I dare say,” he returned, weari- 
ly. “ I wish it could be helped.” 

“ It is nothing new,” she replied, with something of her 
old maimer, “ and there is no help for it.” 

But her touch upon the grass was a caress. She 
smoothed it softly, and moved with singular gentleness a 
few dead leaves which had dropped upon it. 

“ When I come here I am — better,” she said, “ and — • 
less hard. Things do not seem to matter so much — or to 
look so shameful.” 

A pause followed, which she herself broke in upon. 

“ I have thought a great deal of — what he left unfin- 
ished,” she said. “ I have wished that I might see it. It 
would be almost as if I had seen him.” 

“ I can show it to you,” Murdoch answered. “ It is a 
little thing to have caused so great pain.” 

They said but little else until they rose to go. As he 
sat watching the long grass wave under the warm wind, 
Murdoch felt that his excitement had calmed down. He 
was in a cooler mood when they got up at last. But 
before they turned away the girl lingered for a moment, 
as if she wished to speak. 

“ Sometimes,” she faltered, — “ sometimes I have thought 
you had half forgotten.” 

“ Nay,” he answered, “ never that, God knows ! ” 

“ I could not bear to believe it,” she said, passionately. 
“ It would make me hate you ! ” 


AGAIN. 


151 


When they reached home he took her upstairs to his 
room. He had locked the door when he left it in the 
morning. He unlocked it, and they went in. A cloth 
covered something standing upon the table. He drew it 
aside with an unsteady hand. 

“ Look at it,” he said. “ It has been there since last night. 
You see it haunts me too.” 

“What!” she said, “you brought it out yourself— 
again ! ” 

“ Yes,” he answered, “ again.” 

She drew nearer, and sat down in the chair before the 
table. 

“ He used to sit here ? ” she said. 

“ Yes.” 

“ If it had been finished,” she said, as if speaking to 
herself, “ Death would have seemed a little thing to him. 
Even if it should be finished now, I think he would for- 
get the rest.” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


“ten shillings’ worth.” 

The same evening Mr. Briarley, having partaken of an 
early tea and some vigorous advice from his wife, had 
suddenly, during a lull in the storm, vanished from the 
domestic circle, possibly called therefrom by the recollec- 
tion of a previous engagement. Mrs. Briarley had gone 
out to do her “ Sunday shoppin’,” the younger children 
had been put to bed, the older ones were disporting them- 
selves in the streets and by-ways, and consequently Janey 
was left alone, uncheered save by the presence of Granny 
Dixon, who had fallen asleep in her chair with her cap 
unbecomingly disarranged. 

Janey sat down upon her stool at a discreet distance 
from the hearth. She had taken down from its place her 
last book of “ memoirs,” — a volume of a more than usually 
orthodox and peppery flavor. She held it within range 
of the light of the fire and began to read in a subdued 
tone with much unction. 

But she had only mastered the interesting circumstance 
that “James Joseph William was born November 8th,” 
when her attention was called to the fact that wheels had 
stopped before the gate and she paused to listen. 

“ Bless us ! ” she said. “ Some un’s cornin’ in.” 

The person in question was Haworth, who so far dis- 


“ TEN SHILLINGS' WORTH.' 


153 


pensed with ceremony as to walk lip to the firelight with- 
out even knocking at the door, which stood open. 

“ Where’s your father ? ” he demanded. 

“ He’s takken hissen off to th’ beer-house,” said Janey, 
“ as he alius does o’ Saturday neet, — an’ ivvery other neet 
too, as he gets th’ chance.” 

A chair stood near and Haworth took it. 

“ I’ll sit down and wait for him,” he replied. 

“ Tha’lt ha’ to wait a good bit then,” said Miss Briarley. 
“ He’ll noan be whoam till mid neet.” 

She stood in no awe of her visitor. She had heard him 
discussed too freely and too often. Of late years she had 
not unfrequently assisted in the discussions herself. She 
was familiar with his sins and short-comings and regarded 
him with due severity. 

“ He’ll noan be whoam till midneet,” she repeated as 
she seated herself on her stool. 

But Haworth did not move. He was in a mysterious 
humor, it was plain. In a minute more his young com- 
panion began to stare at him with open eyes. She saw 
something in his face which bewildered her. 

“ He’s getten more than’s good fur him,” she was about 
to decide shrewdly, when he leaned forward and touched 
her with the handle of the whip he held. 

“ You’re a sharp little lass, I warrant,” he said. 

Janey regarded him with some impatience. He was 
flushed and somewhat disheveled and spoke awkwardly. 

“ You’re a sharp little lass, I’ll warrant,” he said again. 

“ I ha’ to be,” she responded, tartly. “ Tha’d be sharp 
thysen if tha had as mich to look after as I ha’.” 

“ I dare say,” he answered. “ I dare say.” Then 
added even more awkwardly still, “ I’ve heard Murdoch 
say you were — Murdoch.” 

7 * 


154 


“HAWORTH'S: 


The disfavor with which she had examined him began 
be to mingled with distrust. She hitched her stool a few 
inches backward. 

“Mester Murdoch!” she echoed. “ Aye, I know him 
well enow.” 

“ He comes here every day or so % ” 

“ Aye, him an’ me’s good friends.” 

“ He’s got a good many friends,” he said. 

“ Aye,” she answered. “He’s a noice chap. Most,/ 
folk tak’ to him. Theer’s Mr. Ffrench now and her” 

“ He goes there pretty often ? ” 

“Aye, oftener than he goes any wheer else. They 
mak’ as mich o’ him as if he wur a gentleman.” 

“ Did he tell you that ? ” 

“ Nay,” she answered. “ He does na talk mich about 
it. I’ve fun it out fro’ them as knows.” 

Then a new idea presented itself to her. 

“ What does tha want to know fur ? ” she demanded 
with unceremonious candor. 

He did not tell her why. He gave no notice to her 
question save by turning away from the fire suddenly and 
asking her another. 

“ What does he say about her ? ” 

He spoke in such a manner that she pushed her stool 
still farther back, and sat staring at him blankly and with 
some indignation. 

“ He does na say nowt about her,” she exclaimed 
“ What’s up wi’ thee ? ” 

The next moment she uttered an ejaculation and the 
book of memoirs fell upon the floor. A flame shot up 
from the fire and showed her his face. He drew forth 
his purse and, opening it, took out a coin. The light fell 
upon that too and showed her what it was. 


“ TEN SHILLING S' WORTH 


155 


“Do you see that ? ” he asked. 

“ Aye,” she answered, “ it’s a half-sov’rin.” 

“ I’ll give it to you,” he said, “ if you’ll tell me what he 
says and what he does. You’re sharp enow to have seen 
surnmat, and I’ll give it you if you’ll tell me.” 

He did not care what impression he made on her or 
how he entangled himself. He only thought of one thing. 

“ Tell me what he says and what he does,” he repeated, 
“ and I’ll give it to you.” 

J aney rose from her stool in such a hurry that it lost its 
balance and fell over. 

“ I — I d unnot want it ! ” she cried. “ I dunnot want it. 
I can na mak’ thee out ! ” 

“ You’re not as sharp as I took you for, if you don’t 
want it,” he answered. “ You’ll not earn another as easy, 
my lass.” 

Only stern common sense rescued her from the weak- 
ness of backing out of the room into the next apartment. 

“ I dunnot know what tha’rt drivin’ at,” she said. “ I 
tell thee — I dunnot know nowt.” 

“ Does he never say,” he put it to her, “ that he’s been 
there — and that he’s seen her — and that she’s sat and 
talked — and that he’s looked at her — and listened — and 
thought over it afterward ? ” 

This was the last straw. Bewilderment turned to con- 
tempt. 

“ That would na be worth ten shillin’,” she said. “ Tha 
knows he’s been theer, an’ tha knows he’s seen her, an’ tha 
knows he could na see her wi’out lookin’ at her. I dun- 
not see as theer’s owt i’ lookin’ at her, or i’ listenin’ ney- 
ther. Wheer’s th’ use o’ givin ten shillin’ to hear surnmat 
yo’ know yo’rsen ? ” There’s nowt i’ that ! ” 

“ Has he ever said it ? ” he persisted. 


156 


“ HA WORTH'S. 


“ No,’’ she answered, “ he has na. He nivver wur much 
give ter talk, an’ he says less than ivver i’ these days.” 

“ Has he never said that she treated him well, and — 
was easier to please than he’d thought ; has he never said 
nowt like that ? ” 

“ Nay, that he has na ! ” with vigor. “ Nowt o’ th’ soart.” 

He got up as unceremoniously and abruptly as he had 
sat down. 

“ I was an accursed fool for coming,” she heard him 
mutter. 

He threw the half-sovereign toward her, and it fell on 
the floor. 

“ Art tha goin’ to gi’ it me ? ” she asked. 

“ Yes,” he answered, and he strode through the door- 
way into the darkness, leaving her staring at it. 

She went to the fire and, bending down, examined it 
closely and rubbed it with a corner of her apron. Then 
she tried its ring upon the flagged floor. 

“Aye,” she said, “ it’s a good un, sure enow! It’s a 
good un ! ” 

She had quite lost her breath. She sat down upon her 
stool again, forgetting the memoirs altogether. 

“ I nivver heard so mich doment made over nowt i’ aw 
my days,” she said. “ I conna see now what he wur up 
to, axin’ questions as if he wur i’ drink. He mun ha’ 
been i’ drink or he’d nivver ha’ gi’en it to me.” 

And on the mother’s return she explained the affair to 
her upon this sound and common-sense basis. 

“ Mester Haworth’s been here,” she said, “ an’ he wur 
i’ drink an’ give me ten shillin’. I could na mak’ out 
what he wur drivin’ at. He wur askin’ questions as put 
me out o’ patience. Eh ! what foo’s men is when they’ve 
getten too much.” 


“ TEN /SHILLINGS' WORTH. 


157 


When he left the house, Haworth sprang into his gig 
with an oath. Since the morning he had had time to 
think over things slowly. He had worked himself up 
into a desperate, headlong mood. His blood burned in 
his veins, his pulses throbbed. He went home to his din- 
ner, but ate nothing. He drank heavily, and sat at the 
table wearing such a look that his mother was stricken 
with wonder. 

“ I’m out o’ humor, old lady,” he said to her. “ Stick 
to your dinner, and don’t mind me. A chap with a 
place like mine on his mind can’t always be up to the 
mark.” 

“If you ain’t ill, Jem,” she said, “ it don’t matter your 
not talkin’. You mustn’t think o’ me, my dear! I’m 
used to havin’ lived alone so long.” 

After dinner he went out again, but before he left the 
room he went to her and kissed her. 

“ There’s nowt wrong wi’ me,” he said. “ You’ve no 
need to trouble yourself about that. I’m right enow, 
never fear.” 

“ There’s nothin’ else could trouble me,” she said, 
“ nothin’, so long as you’re well an’ happy.” 

“ There’s nowt to go agen me bein’ happy,” he said, a 
little grimly. “ Not yet, as I know on. I don’t let things 
go agen me easy.” 

About half an hour later, he stood in the road before 
his partner’s house. The night was warm, and the win- 
dows of the drawing-room were thrown open. He stood 
and looked up at them for a minute and then spoke 
aloud. 

“Aye,” he said, “ he’s there, by George ! ” 

He could see inside plainly, and the things he saw best 
were Rachel Ffrench and Murdoch. Ffrench himself sat 


158 


“HAWORTH'S; 


in a large chair, reading. Miss Ffrench stood upon tha 
hearth. She rested an arm upon the low mantel, and 
'talked to Murdoch, who stood opposite to her. The man 
who watched uttered an oath at the sight of her. 

“ Him ! ” he said. “ Him — damn him ! ” and grew hot 
and cold by turns. 

He kept his stand for full ten minutes, and then crossed 
the road. 

The servant who answered his summons at the door re- 
garded him with amazement. 

“ I know they’re in,” he said, making his way past him. 
“ I saw ’em through the window.” 

Those in the drawing-room heard his heavy feet as he 
mounted the staircase. It is possible that each recognized 
the sound. Ffrench rose hurriedly, and, it must be 
owned, with some slight trepidation. Rachel merely 
turned her face toward the door. She did not change 
her position otherwise at all. Murdoch did not move. 

“My dear fellow,” said Ffrench, with misplaced enthu- 
siasm. “ I am glad to see you.” 

But Haworth passed him over with a nod. His eyes 
were fixed on Murdoch. He gave him a nod also and 
spoke to him. 

“ What, you’re here, are you ? ” he said. “ That’s a 
good thing.” 

“We think so,” said Mr. Ffrench, with fresh fervor. 
“ My dear fellow, sit down.” 

He took the chair offered him, but still looked at Mur- 
doch and spoke to him. 

“I’ve been to Briarley’s,” he said. “I’ve had a talk 
with that little lass of his. She gave me the notion you’d 
be here. She’s a sharp little un, by George ! ” 

“ They’re all sharp,” said Mr. Ffrench. “ The preco- 


“ TEN SHILLINGS' WORTH." 


159 


city one finds in these manufacturing towns is something 
astonishing — astonishing. ” 

He launched at once into a dissertation upon the causes 
of precocity in a manufacturing town, and became so ab- 
sorbed in his theme that it mattered very little that Ha- 
worth paid no attention to him. He was leaning back in 
his chair with his hands in his pockets, not moving his 
eyes from Murdoch. 

Mr. Ffrench was in the middle of his dissertation when, 
half an hour afterward, Haworth got up without cere- 
mony. Murdoch was going. 

“ I’ll go with you,” he said to him. 

They went out of the room and down the staircase to- 
gether without speaking. They did not even look at each 
other. 

When they were fairly out of the room Mr. Ffrench 
glanced somewhat uneasily at his daughter. 

“ Really,” he said, “ be is not always a pleasant fellow 
to deal with. One is never sure of reaching him.” And 
then, as he received no answer, he returned in some em- 
barrassment to his book. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


AT AN END. 

When they stood in the road, Haworth laid his hand 
upon his companion’s shoulder heavily. 

“ Come up to the Works, lad,” he said, “ and let’s have 
a bit of a talk.” 

His voice and his touch had something in common. 
Murdoch understood them both. There was no need for 
clearer speech. 

“ Why there ? ” he asked. 

“ It’s quiet there. I’ve a fancy for it.” 

“ I have no fancy against it. As well there as any- 
where else.” 

“ Aye,” said Haworth. “ Not only as well, but better.” 

He led the way into his own room and struck a light. 
He flung his keys upon the table ; they struck it with a 
heavy clang. Then he spoke his first words since they 
had turned from the gate-way. 

“ Aye,” he said, “ not only as well, but better. I’m at 
home here, if I’m out everywhere else. The place knows 

me and I know it. I’m best man here, by ! if I’m 

out everywhere else.” 

He sat down at the table and rested his chin upon his 
hand. His hand shook, and his forehead was clammy. 


AT AN END. 


161 


Murdoch threw himself into the chair opposite to him. 

“Go on,” he said. “ Say what you have to say.” 

Haworth bent forward a little. 

“ You’ve got on better than I’d have thought, lad,” he 
said, — “ better than I’d have thought.” 

“ What ! ” hoarsely. “ Does she treat me as she treats 
other men ? ” 

“ Nay,” said Haworth, “ not as she treats me— by the 
Lord Harry ! ” 

The deadly bitterness which possessed him was terri- 
ble ; he was livid with it. 

“ I’ve thought of a good many,” he said. “ I’ve looked 
on at ’em as they stood round her — chaps of her own sort, 
with money and the rest of it ; but I never thought of 
you — not once.” 

“ No,” said Murdoch, “ I dare say not.” 

“ No — not once,” the man repeated. “ Get up, and 
let’s take a look at you,” he said. “ Happen I’ve not had 
the right notion on you.” 

“Don’t say anything you’ll repent,” said Murdoch. 
“ It’s bad enough as it is.” 

But his words were like chaff before the wind. 

“You!” cried the man. “You were the chap that 
knew naught of women’s ways. You’d scarce look one 
on ’em in the face. Yovtre not the build I thought they 
took to.” 

“ You told me that once before,” said Murdoch, with a 
bitter laugh. “ I’ve not forgotten it.” 

Haworth’s clenched fist fell upon the table with a force 
which made the keys ring. 

“ Blast you ! ” he said. “ You’re nigher to her now 
than me — now ! ” 

“ Then,” Murdoch answered, “ you may give up.” 


162 


“HAWORTH'S. 


“ Give up ! ” was the reply. “Nay, not that, my lad. 
I’ve not come to that yet.” 

Then his rage broke forth again. 

“ You to be going there on the quiet ! ” he cried. 
“ You to be making way with her, and finding her easy 
to please, and priding yourself on it ! ” 

“ 1 please her ! ” said Murdoch. “ I pride myself ! ” 

He got up and began to pace the floor. 

“ You’re mad ! ” he said. “ Mad ! ” 

Haworth checked himself to stare at him. 

“ What did you go for,” he asked, “ if it wasn’t for 
that?” 

Murdoch stopped in his walk. He turned himself 
about. 

“ I don’t know,” he said, “ I don’t know.” 

“ Do you think,” he said, in a hushed voice, after the 
pause which followed, — “do you think I expect any- 
thing ? Do you think I look forward or backward ? 
Can you understand that it is enough as it stands — 
enough ? ” 

Haworth still stared at him dully. 

“Nay,” he returned, “ that I cannot.” 

“ 1 to stand before her as a man with a best side which 
might win her favor! What is there in me, that she 
should give me a thought when I am not near her? 
What have I done ? What has my life been worth ? It 
may be nothing in the end ! Good God ! nothing ! ” 

He said it almost as if stunned. For the moment he 
was overwhelmed, and had forgotten. 

“ Y ou’re nigher to her than I am,” said Haworth. 
“You think because you’re one o’ the gentleman sort ” 

“ Gentleman ! ” said Murdoch, speculatively. “Ia 
gentleman ? ” 


AT AN END. 


163 


cc Aye, damn you,” said Haworth, bitterly, “ and you 
know it.” 

The very words seemed to rouse him. He shook his 
clenched hand. 

“ That’s it ! ” he cried. “ There’s where it is. You’ve 
got it in you, and you know it — and she knows it too ! ” 

“ I have never asked myself whether I was or not,” 
said Murdoch. “ I have not cared. What did it matter ? 
What you said just now was true, after all. I know noth- 
ing of women. I know little enough of men. I have 
been a dull fellow, I think, and slow to learn. I can 
only take what comes.” 

He came back to the table, and threw himself into his 
chair. 

“ Does either of us know what we came here for ? ” he 
asked. 

“ We came to talk it over,” was Haworth’s answer, 
“ and we’ve done it.” 

“ Then, if we have done it, let us go our ways.” 

“ Nay, not yet. I’ve summat more to say.” 

“ Say it,” Murdoch replied, “ and let us have it over.” 

“ It’s this,” he returned. “ You’re a different chap 
from what I took you for — a different chap. I never 
thought of you — not once.” 

“ You’ve said that before.” 

“ Aye,” grimly, “ I’ve said it before. Like enough I 
shall say it again. It sticks to me. We’ve been good 
friends, after a manner, and that makes it stick to me. 
I don’t say you’re to blame. I haven’t quite made the 
thing out yet. We’re of a different build, and — there’s 
been times before when I haven’t quite been up to you. 
.But we’ve been friends, after a manner, and now th’ 
time’s come when we’re done with that.” 


164 


“ HA WORTH'S: 


“ Done with it ! ” repeated Murdoch, mechanically. 
u Aye,” meeting his glance fully, “ done with it ! 
We’ll begin fair and square, lad. It’s done with. Do 
you think,” with deadly coolness, “ I’d stop at aught if 
th’ time come ? ” 

He rose a little from his seat, bending forward. 

“ Naught’s never come in my way, yet, that’s stopped 
me,” he said. “ Things has gone agen me and I’ve got 
th’ best on ’em in one way or another. I’ve not minded 
how. I’ve gone on till I’ve reached this. Naught’s 
stopped me — naught never shall ! ” 

He fell back in his chair and wiped the cold sweat 
from his forehead with his handkerchief. 

“ I wish,” he said, “ it had been another chap. I never 
thought of you — not once.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 


<C I SHALL NOT TURN BACK.’* 

Murdoch went out into the night alone. When he 
found himself outside the iron gate he stood still for a 
moment. 

“ I will not go home yet,” he said ; “ not yet.” 

He knew this time where he was going when he turned 
his steps upon the road again. He had only left the 
place a few hours before. 

The moonlight gave it almost a desolate look, he 
thought, as he passed through the entrance. The wind 
still swayed the grass upon the mounds fitfully, and the 
headstones cast darker shadows upon them. There was 
no shadow upon the one under which Stephen Murdoch 
rested. It lay in the broad moonlight. Murdoch noticed 
this as he stopped beside it. He sat down upon the grass, 
just as he had done in the afternoon. 

“ Better not go home, just yet,” he said again. a There 
is time enough.” 

Suddenly an almost unnatural calmness had fallen upon 
him. His passions and uncertainties of the past few 
months seemed small things. He had reached a climax 
and for a moment there seemed time enough. He 
thought of the past almost coldly — going over the ground 


166 


“HAWORTH'S. 


mentally, step by step. It was as if he thought of the do- 
ings of another man — one who was younger and simpler 
and whose life was now over. 

“ There are a good many things that are done with,” he 
said mechanically, recalling Haworth’s words. 

He thought of the model standing in its old place in 
the empty room. It was a living thing awaiting his 
coming. The end might be anything — calamity, failure, 
death ! — but to-night he had taken his first step toward 
that end. 

“ To-night I shall begin as he began,” he thought ; “ to- 
night.” 

He threw himself full length upon the grass, clasping 
his hands beneath his head, his face turned upward to 
the vast clearness and depth above him. He had known 
it would come some day, but he never thought of its com- 
ing in this way. The man who slept under the earth at 
his side had begun with hope; he began as one who 
neither hoped nor feared, yielding only to a force stronger 
than himself. 

He lay in this manner looking up for nearly an hour. 
Then he arose and stood with bared head in the white 
light and stillness. 

“ I shall not turn back,” he said aloud at last, as if to 
some presence near him. “ I shall not turn back, at least. 
Do not fear it.” 

And he turned away. 

It was his mother who opened the door for him when 
he reached home. 

“ Come in,” he said to her, with a gesture toward the 
inner room. “ I have something to say to you.” 

She followed him in silence. Her expression was cold 


“/ SHALL NOT TURN BACK. 


167 


and fixed. It struck him that she, too, had lived past 
hope and dread. 

She did not sit down when she had closed the door, 
but stood upright, facing him. 

He spoke hoarsely. 

“ I am going upstairs,” he said. “ I told you once that 
some day it would see the light again in spite of us both. 
You can guess what work I shall do to-night.” 

“ Yes,” she answered, “ I can guess. I gave up long 
ago.” 

She looked at him steadily ; her eyes dilated a little as 
if with slow-growing fear of him. 

“ I knew it would end so,” she went on. “ I fought 
against my belief that it would, but it grew stronger 
every day — every hour. There was no other way.” 

“ No,” he replied, “ there was no other way.” 

“ I have seen it in your face,” she said. “ I have 
heard it in your voice. It has never been absent from 
your thoughts a moment — nor mine.” 

He did not speak. 

“ At first, when he died ” 

Her voice faltered and broke, and then rose in a cry 
almost shrill. 

u He did not die ! ” she cried. “ He is not dead. He 
lives now — here ! There is no death for him — not even 
death until it is done.” 

She panted for breath ; her thin chest rose and fell — 
and yet suddenly she checked herself and stood before 
him with her first strained calm. 

“ Go,” she said. “ I cannot hold you. If there is an 
end to be reached, reach it for God’s sake and let him 
rest.” 


168 


“ HA WORTH'S. 


“ Wish me God-speed,” he said. u I — have more to 
bear than you think of.” 

For answer she repeated steadily words which she had 
uttered before. 

“ I do not believe in it ; I have never believed for one 
hour.” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


A REVOLUTION. 

In a month’s time the Broxton Bank was an established 
fact. It had sprung into existence in a manner which 
astonished even its originator. Haworth had come to 
him in cold blood and talked the matter over. He had 
listened to the expounding of his views, and without 
being apparently much moved by his eloquence, had still 
shown a disposition to weigh the plan, and having given 
a few days to deliberation, he had returned a favorable 
decision. 

“ The thing sounds well,’* he said, “ and it may be a 
sharp stroke that way. When the rest on ’em hear on it, 
it’ll set ’em thinkin’. Blast ’em ! I like to astonish ’em, 
an’ give ’em summat to chew.” 

Mr. Ffrench could scarcely believe the evidence of his 
senses. He had been secretly conscious of playing a 
minor part in all business transactions. His pet theories 
had been thrust aside as worthy of small notice. His 
continental experience had been openly set at naught. 
When he had gone to the trouble of explaining his ideas 
to the heads of the various departments, he had been con- 
scious of illuminating smiles on the grimy countenances 
around him. His rather frail physique, his good breed- 
ing, his well-modulated voice, had each been the subject 
of derisive comment. 

8 


170 


“HAWORTH'S. 


“ Gi’ him a puddlin’ rake an’ let him puddle a bit,” he 
had heard a brawny fellow say, after one of his most 
practical dissertations. 

After his final interview with Haworth, he went home 
jubilant. At dinner he could speak of nothing else. Miss 
Ffrench heard the details from beginning to end, and en- 
joyed them in a manner peculiarly her own. 

At the “ Who’d ha Thowt it ” no little excitement pre- 
vailed when the movement was discussed. 

“ A bank ! ” said Foxy Gibbs. “ An’ wheer did he get 
th’ money to set up a bank wi’ ? Why, he getten it out 
o’ th’ workin’ mon, an’ th’ sweat o’ th’ workin’ mon’s 
brow. If theer wur na no banks, theer’d be more money 
to put in ’em. I dunnot believe i’ banks mysen. Let the 
brass cerkylate — let it cerkylate.” 

“ Aye,” said Mr. Briarley, who had reached his second 
quart, “ let it cerkylate, an’ he’ll ha’ more comfort, will th’ 
workin’ mon. Theer’s too many on ’em,” with natural 
emotion. “ They’re th’ ruin o’ th’ country. Theer’s 
summat wrong wi’ ’em. If they’d gi’ a chap summat to 
put i’ ’em theer’d be some chance for him ; but that’s al- 
ius th’ way. He has na no chance, hasn’t th’ workin’ 
mon — he has na no ” 

“ Shut up ! ” said Foxy Gibbs. 

“ Eh ? ” inquired the orator, weakly and uncertainly. 

“ Shut up, till tha’s getten less beer i’ thee ! ” 

“ Shut — ” repeated Mr. Briarley, winking his eyes 
slowly, — “ up ? ” 

He seized his beer mug and gazed into its depths in 
some confusion. A deep sigh escaped him. 

“ That’s alius th’ road,” he faltered. “ It’s th’ road wi’ 
Sararann, an’ it’s th’ road wi’ aw on ’em. He has no 
chance, has na a mon as is misforehnit.” And he happily 


A REVOLUTION. 


171 


disposed of the beer before Janey opened the door and 
appeared to marshal him homeward. 

But the Broxton Bank was an established fact, and 
created no small sensation. 

“ He is a bold fellow, this Haworth,” it was said among 
his rivals, “but he will overstep himself one of these 
days.” 

“ He’s set up a bank, has he ? ” shouted Granny Dixon, 
on Murdoch’s first visit after she had heard the story. 

“ Yes,” Murdoch answered. 

She sat glowering at the fire a few moments almost 
bent double, and then, having deluded her audience into 
believing she had subsided, suddenly started and came to 
life again with increased vigor. 

“ I’ve getten my brass i’ th’ Manchester Savin’s,” she 
cried, “ an’ I’ll keep it theer.” 

It seemed unnecessary to reply, and nobody made any 
remark upon this statement of facts. But the venerable 
matron had not concluded. 

“ I’ll keep it theer ! ” she repeated — “ keep it theer ! I 
conna bide him, no more than I can bide her.” And then 
she returned to her fire, fixing her great eyes upon it and 
mumbling with no small elation. 

“Th’ thing’ll break now, for sure,” commented her 
much-tried hostess, sardonically. “It conna stand up 
agen that, i’ reason. Haworth ud better sell th’ Works 
at th’ start afore it’s too late.” 

There had been some vague wonder in Murdoch’s mind 
as to what the result of Haworth’s outburst against him- 
self would be. 

The first time he found himself confronting him as he 
went to his work-room he spoke to him : 

“You said once,” he remarked, “ that you had kept 


172 


“ HA WORTH'S. 


this room empty because you did not care to be at close 

quarters with every man. Now ” 

“Get thee in, my lad,” he interrupted, dryly. “It 
suits me well enow to ha’ you nigh me. Never fear that.” 

The only outward change made was in his manner. 
He went about his labor with a deadly persistence. He 
came early and went home late. The simplest “ hand ” 
saw that some powerful force was at work. He was silent 
and harder in his rule of those under him. He made 
closer bargains and more daring plans. Men who had 
been his rivals began to have a kind of fear of him. All 
he took in hand throve. 

“ He is a wonderful fellow,” said Ff rench to his friends. 
“ Wonderful — wonderful ! ” 

Even the friends in question who were, some of them, 
county magnates of great dignity, began to find their 
opinion of the man shaken. In these days there was 
actually nothing to complain of. The simple little coun- 
try woman reigned in his household. She attended the 
Broxton Chapel and dispensed her innocent charities on 
all sides. Finally a dowager of high degree (the patron- 
ess of a charitable society), made the bold move of calling 
upon her for a subscription. 

“ It weren’t as hard to talk to her, Jem, as I’d have 
thought,” said Mrs. Haworth afterward. “ She began to 
tell me about the poor women as suffers so, an’ somehow 
I forgot about her bein’ so grand. I couldn’t think of 
nothin’ but the poor creturs an’ their pain, an’ when I 
come to sign my name my ’and trembled so an’ my eyes 
was that full I couldn’t hardly tell what I’d put down. 

To think of them poor things ” 

“ How much did you give her ? ” asked Haworth. 

“ I give her ten pound, my dear, an’ ” 


A REVOLUTION. 


173 


He pulled out a bank-note and handed it to her. 

“Go to her to-morrow and give her that,” he said. 
“ Happen it ’ll be suramat new fur her to get fifty at a 
stroke.” 

So it began to be understood that the master of “ Ha- 
worth’s ” was a bugbear with redeeming points after all. 
The Broxton Bank had its weight too, and the new cot- 
tages which it was necessary to build. 

“ It is to Haworth after all that you owe the fact that 
the place is growing,” said Ffrench. 

There came an evening, when on entering the drawing- 
room of a county potentate with whom she and her father 
were to dine, Bachel Ffrench found herself looking di- 
rectly at Haworth, who stood in the center of a group of 
guests. They were talking to him with an air of great 
interest and listening to his off-hand replies with actual 
respect. Suddenly the tide had turned. Before the 
evening had passed the man was a lion, and all the more 
a lion because he had been so long tabooed. He went in 
to dinner with the lady patroness, and she afterward an- 
nounced her intention of calling upon his mother in state. 

“ There is a rough candor about the man, my dear,” 
she said, “ which one must respect, and it appears that he 
has really reformed.” 

There was no difficulty after this. Mrs. Haworth had 
visitors every day, who came and examined her and won- 
dered, and, somehow, were never displeased by her tender 
credulity. She admired them all and believed in them, 
and was always ready with tears and relief for their pern 
sioners and charities. 

“Don’t thank me, ma’am,” she would say. “Don’t 
never thank me, for it’s not me that deserves it, but him 
that’s so ready and generous to every one that suffers. 


174 


1 1 HA WORTH'S. 


There never was such a kind heart before, it seems to 
me, ma’am, nor such a lovin’ one.” 

Haworth’s wealth, his success, his open-handedness, his 
past sins, were the chief topics of conversation. To speak 
of Broxton was to speak of the man who had made it 
what it was by his daring and his power, and who was an 
absolute ruler over it and its inhabitants. 

Ffrench was a triumphant man. He was a potentate 
also ; he could ride his hobby to the sound of applause. 
When he expatiated upon “ processes,” he could gain an 
audience which was attentive and appreciative. He had 
not failed this time, at least, and was put down as a 
shrewd fellow after all. 

In the festivities which seemed, somehow, the result of 
this sudden revulsion of feeling, Rachel Ffrench was 
naturally a marked figure. Among the women, with 
whom she was not exactly a favorite, it was still conceded 
that she was not a young woman whom it was easy to ig- 
nore. Her beauty — of which it was impossible to say 
that she was conscious— was of a type not to be rivaled. 
When she entered a room, glancing neither to right nor 
left, those who had seen her before unavoidably looked 
again, and those who had not were silent as she passed. 
There was a delicate suggestion of indifference in her 
manner, which might be real or might not. Her de- 
meanor toward Haworth never altered, even to the extent 
of the finest shadow of change. 

When they were in a room together his eye followed 
her with stealthy vigilance, and her knowledge of the 
fact was not a disturbing one. The intensity of her con- 
sciousness was her great strength. She was never unpre- 
pared. When he approached her she met him with her 
little untranslatable smile. He might be bold, or awk- 


A REVOLUTION. 


175 


ward, or desperate, but he never found her outwardly 
conscious or disturbed, or a shade colder or warmer. 

It was only natural that it should not be long before 
others saw what she, seeing, showed no knowledge of. It 
was easily seen that he made no effort at concealment. 
His passion revealed itself in every look and gesture. He 
could not have controlled it if he would, and would not 
if he could. 

“ Let ’em see,” he said to himself. “ It’s naught to 
them. It’s betwixt her and me.” He even bore himself 
with a sullen air of defiance at times, knowing that he 
had gained one thing at least. He was nearer to her in 
one way than any other man ; he might come and go 
as he chose, he saw her day after day, he knew her in- 
goings and out-cOmings. The success which had restored 
her father’s fortunes was his success. 

“ I can make her like a queen among ’em,” he said, — 
“ like a queen, by George, — and I’ll do it.” 

Every triumph which fell to him he regarded only as it 
would have weight in her eyes. When society opened its 
doors to him, he said to himself, “ How she’ll see that I 
can stand up with the best of ’em, gentlemen or no gen- 
tlemen ! ” 

When he suddenly found himself a prominent figure — 
a man deferred to and talked of, he waited with secret 
feverishness to see what the effect upon her would be. 

“ It’s what women like,” he said. “ It’s what she likes 
more than most on ’em. It’ll be bound to tell in the 
end.” t 

He labored as he had never labored before ; his ambi 
tions were boundless ; he strove and planned and ven- 
tured, lying awake through long hours of the night, pon- 
dering and building, his daring growing with his success. 


176 


“ HA WORTHS. 


There occurred one thing, however, which he had not 
bargained for. In his laudable enthusiasm Mr. Ffrench 
could not resist the temptation to sound the praises of his 
protege. His belief in him had increased instead of 
diminished with time, as he had been forced regretfully 
to acknowledge had been the case during the eras of the 
young man from Manchester and his fellows. He had 
reason to suspect that a climax had been reached and that 
his hopes might be realized. It is not every man who 
keeps on hand a genius. Naturally his friends heard of 
Murdoch often. Those who came to the Works were 
taken to his work-room as to a point of interest. He be- 
came in time a feature, and was spoken of with a mixture of 
curiosity and bewilderment. To each visitor Ffrench told, 
in strict confidence, the story of his father with due effect. 

“ And it’s my impression,” he always added, “ that we 
shall hear more of this invention one of these days. He 
is a singular fellow — reserved and not easy to read — just 
the man to carry a purpose in his mind and say nothing 
of it, and in the end startle the world by accomplishing 
what he has held in view.” 

Finally, upon one occasion, when his daughter was 
making her list of invitations for a dinner party they 
were to give, he turned to her suddenly, with some hesita- 
tion in his manner. 

“ Oh — by the way,” he said, “ there’s Murdoch, we’ve 
never had Murdoch.” 

She wrote the name without comment. 

“ Who next ? ” she asked after having done it. 

“ You see,” he went on, waveringly, “ there is really 
nothing which could be an obstacle in the way of our in- 
viting him — really nothing. He is — he is all that we 
could wish.” 


A REVOLUTION. 


177 


The reply he received staggered him. 

“ It is nonsense,” she said, looking up calmly, “ to talk 
of obstacles. I should have invited him long ago.” 

“ You ! ” he exclaimed. “ Would you — really ? ” 

“ Yes,” she answered. “ Why not ? ” 

“ Why — not ? ” he repeated, feebly. “ I don’t know 

why not. I thought that perhaps ” and then he broke 

off. “ I wish I had known as much before,” he added. 

When he received the invitation, Murdoch declined it. 

“ I should only be out of place,” he said, candidly to 
Miss Ffrench. “I should know nobody and nobody 
would know me. Why should I come ? ” 

6 ‘ There is a very good reason why you should come,” 
answered the young woman with perfect composure “ 1 
am the reason.” 

There was no further discussion of the point. He was 
present and Haworth sat opposite to him at the table. 

“ It’s the first time for him f ” said Haworth to Miss 
Ffrench afterward. 

“ It is the first time he has dined here with other peo- 
ple,” she answered. “ Have you a reason for asking ? ” 

He held his coffee-cup in his hand and glanced over it 
across the room, 

“ He is not like the rest on ’em,” he said, “ but he stands 
it pretty well, by George ! ” 

8 * 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


THE BEGINNING. 

For some time there had hung over the conduct of 
Mr. Briarley an air of deep mystery. The boon of his 
society had been granted to his family even less fre- 
quently than ever. His habit of sudden and apparently 
unaccountable disappearance from the home circle after 
or even in the midst of an argument had become more 
than usually pronounced. He went out every night and 
invariably returned under the influence of malt liquor. 

“ Wheer he gets th’ brass bangs me,” said Mrs. Briarley. 
“ He does na tak’ it out o’ his wage, that’s certain, fur he 
has na been a ha’penny short fur three week, an’ he does 
na get it o’ tick, that I know. Bannett at th’ ‘ Public ’ is 
11a a foo’. Wheer does he get th’ brass fro’ ? ” 

But this was not easily explained. On being catechised 
Mr. Briarley either shed tears of penitence or shook his 
head with deep solemnity of meaning. At times when 
he began to shake it — if the hour was late and his condition 
specially foggy — he was with difficulty induced to stop 
shaking it, but frequently continued to do so with pro- 
tracted fervor and significance gradually decreasing until 
he fell asleep. When he was sober he was timorous and 
abstracted. He started at the sound of the opening door, 
and apparently existed in a state of secret expectation and 
alarm. 


THE BEGINNING . 


179 


“ I conna tell thee, Sararann,” he would say. “ At 
least,’ 5 with some tremor, “ I wunnot tell thee just yet* 
Thou’ It know i’ toime.” 

He did not patronize the “ Who’d ha’ Thowt it ” as 
much as formerly, in these days, Janey discovered. He 
evidently got the beer elsewhere, and at somebody’s expense. 
His explanation of this was a brilliant and happy one, but 
it was only offered once, in consequence of the mode of 
its reception by his hearers. He presented it suddenly 
one night after some moments of silence and mental re- 
search. 

“ Theer’s a gentlemon as is a friend o’ moine,” he said, 
“ as has had uncommon luck. His heirs has deed an’ left 
him a forchin, an’ he’s come into it, an’ he’s very mich 
tuk wi’ me. I dunnot know as I ivver seed ony one as 
mich tuk wi’ me, Sararann — an’ his heirs deein’ an’ leavin’ 
him a forchin — that theer’s how it is, Sararann, — that 
theer’s how it is.” 

“ Tha brazant leer ! ” cried Mrs. Briarley, aghast. 
“ Tha brazant leer ! Get out wi’ thee ! ” in an outburst 
of indignation. “ Thee an’ thy forchins an’ heirs deein’ — 
as if it wur na bad enow at th’ start. A noice chap tha 
art to set thysen up to know gentlefolks wi’ heirs to dee an’ 
leave ’em brass. Eh ! Bless us ! what art tha cornin’ to ? ” 

The result was not satisfactory, as Mr. Briarley felt 
keenly. 

“ Tha hast getten no confydence i’ me, Sararann,” he 
said in weak protest. “ Tha has na no faith — nor yet,” fol- 
lowing the train of thought with manifest uncertainty, — 
“ nor yet no works.” 

The situation was so painful, however, that he made no 
further effort of the imagination to elucidate the matter, 
and it remained temporarily obscured in mystery. 


180 


“ HA WORTH'S. 


Only temporarily, however. A few weeks afterward 
Ffrench came down to the Works in great excitement. 
He went to Haworth’s room, and finding him there, shut 
the door and almost dropped into a chair. 

“What’s up?” demanded Haworth, with some impa- 
tience. u What’s up, man ? ” 

“You haven’t heard the report?” Ffrench answered, 
tremulously. “ It hasn’t reached you yet ? ” 

“ I’ve heard nowt to upset me. Out with it ! What’s 
up?” 

He was plainly startled, and lost a shade of color, but 
he held himself boldly. Ffrench explained himself with 
trepidation. 

“ The hands in Marfort and Molton and Howton are on 
the strike, and those in Dillup and Burton are plainly 
about to follow suit. I’ve just got a Manchester paper, 
which says the lookout is bad all over the country. Meet- 
ings have been going on in secret for some time.” 

He stopped and sat staring at his partner. Haworth 
was deathly pale. He seemed, for a moment, to lack 
breath, and then suddenly the dark color rushed to his 
face again. 

“ By ” he began, and stopped with the oath upon 

his lips. 

“Don’t swear, for pity’s sake,” broke forth Ffrench, 
finding courage for protest in his very desperation. “ It’s 
not the time for it. Let’s look the thing in the face.” 

“ Look it in the face,” Haworth repeated. “ Aye, 
let’s.” 

He said the words with a fierce sneer. 

“ Aye, look it in the face, man,” he said again. “ That’s 
th’ thing to do.” 

He bent forward, extending his hand across the table. 


THE BEGINNING. 


181 


“ Let’s see th’ paper,” he demanded. 

Ffrench gave it to him, and he read the paragraphs re- 
ferred to in silence. When he had finished them, he 
folded the paper again mechanically. 

“They might have done it last year and welcome, 
blast ’em ! ” he said. 

Ffrench began to tremble. 

“ You’ve ventured a good deal of late, Haworth,” he 
said, weakly. “You’ve done some pretty daring things, 
you know — and ” 

Haworth turned on him. 

“ If I lose all I’ve made,” he said, hoarsely, “ shall I lose 
aught of yours, lad ? ” 

Ffrench did not reply. He sat playing with his watch- 
chain nervously. He had cause for anxiousness on his 
own score, and his soul quaked within him. 

“ What is to be done ? ” he ventured at last. 

“There’s only one thing to be done,” Haworth an- 
swered, pushing his chair back. “ Stop it here — at th’ 
start.” 

“ Stop it ? ” Ffrench echoed, in amazement. 

“Aye, stop it.” 

He got up and took his hat down and put it on. 

“ I’m going round th’ place and about th’ yards and into 
th’ town,” he said. “ There’s naught for you to do but 
keep quiet. Th’ quieter you keep th’ better for us. Go 
on as if you’d heard naught. Stay here a bit, and then 
walk over to th’ bank. Look alive, man ! ” 

He went out and left Ffrench alone. In the passage 
he came upon a couple of men who were talking together 
in low voices. They started at sight of him and walked 
away slowly. 

He went first to the engine-room. There he found 


182 


“ HAWORTH'S 


Floxham and Murdoch talking also. The old engineer 
wore an irritable air, and was plainly in a testy mood. 
Murdoch looked fagged and pale. Of late he was often 
so. As Haworth entered he turned toward him, uttering 
an exclamation. 

“ He is here now,” he said. “ That is well enough.” 

Floxham gave him a glance from under his bent, bushy 
brows. 

“ Aye,” he answered. “ We may as well out wi’ it.” 

He touched his cap clumsily. 

“ Tell him,” he said to Murdoch, “an’ ha’ it over.” 

Murdoch spoke in a cool, low voice. 

“ I have found out,” he said, “ that there is trouble on 
foot. I began to suspect it a week ago. Some rough fel- 
lows from Manchester and Molton have been holding secret 
meetings at a low place here. Some of the hands have 
been attending them. Last night a worse and larger gang 
came and remained in the town. They are here now. 
They mean mischief at least, and there are reports afloat 
that strikes are breaking out on all sides.” 

Haworth turned abruptly to Floxham. 

“ Where do you stand ? ” he asked roughly. 

The old fellow laid his grimy hand upon his engine. 

“ I stand here, my lad,” he answered. “ That’s wheer — 
an’ I’ll stick to it, unions or no unions.” 

“ That’s the worst side of the trouble,” said Murdoch. 
“ Those who would hold themselves aloof from the rest 
will be afraid of the trades unions. If worst comes to 
worst, their very lives will be in danger. They know that, 
and so do we.” 

“ Aye, lad,” said Floxham, “ an’ tha’rt reet theer.” 

Haworth ground his teeth and swore under his breath. 
Then he spoke to Murdoch. 




STAND HERE, MY LAD,” HE ANSWERED 














THE BEGINNING. 


183 


“ How is it going on here ? ” he asked. 

u Badly enough, in a quiet way. You had better go and 
see for yourself.” 

He went out, walking from room to room, through the 
yards and wherever men were at work. Here and there 
a place was vacant. Where the work went on, it went on 
dully ; he saw dogged faces and subdued ones ; those who 
looked up as he passed wore an almost deprecatory air ; 
those who did not look up at all, bent over their tasks with 
an expression which was at least negatively defiant. His 
keen eye discovered favorable symptoms, however ; those 
who were in evil mood were his worst workmen — men 
who had their off days of drunken stupor and idleness, 
and the heads of departments were plainly making an 
effort to stir briskly and ignore the presence of any cloud 
upon their labor. 

By the time he had made the rounds he had grasped the 
situation fully. The strait was desperate, but not as bad 
as it might have been. 

“ I may hold ’em,” he said to himself, between his teeth. 
“ And by the Lord Harry I’ll try hard for it.” 

He went over to the bank and found Ffrench in his 
private room, pale and out of all courage. 

“ There will be a run on us by this time to-morrow,” he 
said. “ I see signs of it already.” 

“ Will there ? ” said Haworth. “ We’ll see about that. 
Wait a bit, my lad ! ” 

He went into the town and spent an hour or so taking 
a sharp lookout. Nothing escaped him. There were 
more idlers than usual about the ale houses, and more 
than once he passed two or three women talking together 
with anxious faces and in undertones. As he was passing 
one such group one of the women saw him and started. 


184 


“ HA WORTH'S. 


u Theer he is!” she said, and her companion turned 
with her and they both stopped talking to look after 
him. 

Before returning he went up to his partner’s house. 
He asked for Miss Ffrench and was shown into the room 
where she sat writing letters. She neither looked pleased 
nor displeased when she saw him, but rose to greet him at 
once. She gave him a rather long look. 

u What is the matter ? ” she asked. 

Suddenly he felt less bold. The heat of his excitement 
failed to sustain him. He was all unstrung. 

“ I’ve come to tell you not to go out,” he said. “ There’s 
trouble afoot — in the trade. There’s no knowing how it’ll 
turn out. There’s a lot of chaps in th’ town who are not 
in th’ mood to see aught that’ll fret ’em. They’re ready 
for mischief, and have got drink in ’em. Stay you here 
until we see which way th’ thing’s going.” 

“ Do you mean,” she demanded, “ that there are signs 
of a strike ? ” 

“ There’s more than signs of it,” he answered, sullenly. 
“ Before night the whole place will be astir.” 

She moved across the room and pulled the bell. A ser- 
vant answered the summons instantly. 

“ I want the carriage,” she said. 

Then she turned to Haworth with a smile of actual 
triumph. 

“ Nothing would keep me at home,” she said. “ I 
shall drive through the town and back again. Do you 
think I will let them fancy that I am afraid of them ? ” 

“ You’re not afraid ? ” he said, almost in a whisper. 

u I afraid ? ” she answered, “ I? ” 

“ Wait here,” she added. She left the room, and in 
less than ten minutes returned. He had never before 


TEE BEGINNING. 


185 


seen in her the lire he saw then. There was a spark of 
light in her eyes, a color on her cheek. She had chosen 
her dress with distinct care for its luxurious richness. 
His exclamation, as she entered buttoning her long, deli- 
cate glove, was a repressed oath. He exulted in her. 
His fear for her was gone, and only this exultation re- 
mained. 

“ You’ve made up your mind to that ? ” he said. He 
wanted to make her say more. 

“ I am going to see your mother,” she answered. 
“ That will take me outside of the town, then I shall drive 
back again — slowly. They shall understand me at least.” 

She let him lead her out to the carriage, which by this 
time was waiting. After she was seated in it, she bent 
forward and spoke to him. 

“ Tell my father where I am going and why,” she said. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


A SPEECH. 

When he returned to the Works the noon-bell was 
ringing, and the hands were crowding through the gates 
on their way to their midday meal. Among those going 
out he met Floxham, who spoke to him as he passed. 

“ Theer’s some o’ them chaps,” he said, “ as wunnot show 
their faces again.” 

“ Aye,” said Haworth, “ I see that.” 

Ffrench had left the bank and was pacing up and down 
his room panic-stricken. 

“What have you heard?” he exclaimed, turning as 
Haworth entered. “ Is it — is it as bad as you expected ? ” 

“ Aye,” said Haworth, “ worse and better too.” 

“ Better ? ” he faltered. 

Haworth flung himself into a chair. He wore a look 
of dogged triumph. 

“ Leave ’em to me,” he answered. “ Pm in th’ mood 
fur ’em now.” 

But it was not until some time afterward that he deliv- 
ered the message Rachel Ffrench had intrusted to him. 

On hearing it her father appeared to rally a little. 

“ It seems a rather dangerous thing to do,” he said, 
“but — it is like her. And perhaps, after all, there is 
something in — in showing no fear.” 

And for a few moments after having thought the inci- 


A SPEECH. 187 

dent over he became comparatively sanguine and cheer- 
ful. 

As Floxham had predicted, when the work-bell called 
the hands together again there were still other places 
vacant. Mr. Briarley, it may be observed, had been ab- 
sent all day, and by this time was listening with affection- 
ate interest and spasmodic attacks of inopportune enthu- 
siasm to various inflammatory speeches which were being 
made at a beer house. 

Toward evening the work lagged so that the over-look- 
3rs could no longer keep up the semblance of ignorance. 
A kind of gloom settled upon them also, and they went 
3 -bout with depressed faces. 

“ It’ll be all up to-morrow,” said one, “ if there’s noth- 
ing done.” 

But something was done. 

Suddenly — just before time for the last bell to ring — 
Haworth appeared at the door of the principal room. 

“ Lads ! ” he shouted, “ them on you as wants a speech 
from Jem Haworth gather in th’ yard in five minutes 
from now.” 

There was no more work done. The bell began to 
ring ; implements were thrown down and a shout went 
up from the crowd. Then there was a rush into the yard, 
and in less than the five minutes the out-pouring of the 
place thronged about its chief doorway where Jem Ha- 
worth stood on the topmost step, looking down, facing 
them all, boldly — with the air of a man who felt his vic- 
tory more than half won.” 

“ Let’s hear what tha’st getten to say,” cried some one 
well hidden by the crowd. “ Out wi’ it.” 

“ It’s not much,” Haworth shouted back. “ It’s this to 
start with. I’m here to find out where you chaps stand.” 


188 


HAWORTH'S: 


But there was no answer to this. He knew there would 
be none and went on. 

“ I’ve been through th’ place this morning,” he said, 
“ and through th’ town, and I know how th’ wind blows 
as well as any on you. Th’ lads at Marfort and Molton 
and Dillup are on th’ strike. There’s a bad lookout in 
many a place besides them. There’s a lot of fools laying 
in beer and making speeches down in Broxton ; there 
were some here this morning as didn’t show this 
afternoon. How many on you’s going to follow 
them?” 

Then there was a murmur which was not easy to un- 
derstand. It was a mixture of sounds defiant and con- 
ciliatory. Haworth moved forward. He knew them bet- 
ter than they knew him. 

“ Vm not one o’ the model soart,” he called out. “ I’ve 
not set up soup kitchens nor given you flannel petticoats. 
I’ve looked sharp after you, and I should have been a 
fool if I hadn’t. I’ve let you alone out of work hours, 
and I’ve not grudged you your sprees, when they didn’t 
stand in my way. I’ve done the square thing by you, and 
I’ve done it by myself. Th’ places I’ve built let no water 
in, and I let ’em to you as easy as I could and make no 
loss. I didn’t build ’em for benevolent purposes, but I’ve 
not heard one of you chaps complain of ’em yet. I’ve 
given you your dues and stood by you — and I’ll do it 
again, by ” 

There was a silence — a significant breathless one. 

“ Have I done it,” he said, “ or haven’t I ? ” 

Suddenly the silence was broken. 

“ Aye,” there was a shout, “ aye, lad, yo’ ha’.” 

“Then,” he shouted, “them as Jem Haworth has stood 
by, let ’em stand by Jem Haworth ! ” 


A SPEECH. 


189 


And he struck his big fist upon his open palm with a 
fierce blow, and stood before them breathing hard. 

He had the best metal on his side somehow, and the 
best metal carried the day. The boldness of his move, 
the fact that he had not waited, but had taken the lead, 
were things all for him. Even those who wavered toward 
the enemy were stirred to something like admira- 
tion. 

“ But what about th’ Union ? ” said a timorous voice in 
the rear. “ Theer’ll be trouble with th’ Unions as sure 
as we stand out, Mester.” 

Haworth made a movement none of them understood. 
He put his hand behind him and drew from his hip- 
pocket an object which caused every man of them to give 
a little start and gasp. They were used to simple and 
always convenient modes of defense. The little object he 
produced would not have startled an American, but it 
startled a Lancashire, audience. It was of shining steel 
and rose-wood, and its bright barrels glittered significant- 
ly. He held it out and patted it lightly. 

“ That’s for the Union, lads,” he said. “ And more 
like it.” 

A few of the black sheep moved restlessly and with 
manifest tremor. This was a new aspect of affairs. One 
of them suddenly cried out with much feebleness : 

“ Th — three cheers for Haworth.” 

“ Let the chaps as are on the other side go to their lot 
now,” said Haworth. 

But no one moved. 

“ There’s some here that’ll go when th’ time comes,” he 
announced. “Let ’em tell what they’ve heard. Now 
lads, the rest on you up with your hands.” 

The whole place was in a tumult. They held up their 


190 


“HAWORTH'S: 


hands and clenched and shook them and shouted, and 
j here and there swore with fluency and enthusiasm. 
There were not six among them who were not fired with 
the general friendly excitement. 

“ To-morrow morning there’ll be papers posted up, 
writ in Jem Haworth’s hand and signed with his name,” 
cried Haworth. “ Read ’em as you come along, lads, and 
when you reach here I’ll be ready for you.” 

“ Is it about th’ pistols ? ” faltered the timorous 
voice. 

“ Aye,” Haworth answered, “ about th’ pistols. Now 
go home.” 

He turned to mount the step, flushed and breathing 
fast and with high-beating pulses, when suddenly he 
stopped. Before the iron gate a carriage had stopped. 
A servant in livery got down and opened the door, and 
Rachel Ffrench stepped out. The hands checked their 
shouting to look at her. She came up the yard slowly 
and with the setting sun shining upon her. It was natu- 
ral that they should gaze at her as she approached, though 
she did not look at any of them — only at Haworth, who 
waited. They made a pathway for her and she passed 
through it and went up the step. Her rich dress touched 
more than one man as she swept by. 

“ I thought,” they heard her say, “ that I would call 
for my father.” 

Then for the first time she looked at the men. She 
turned at the top of the step and looked down — the sun 
on her dress and face. 

There was not a man among them who did not feel the 
look. At first a murmur arose and then an incoherent 
cry and then a shout, and they threw up their caps and 
shouted until they were hoarse. 


A SPEECH ; 


191 


In the midst of it she turned aside and went in with a 
smile on her lips. 

In Haworth’s room they found her father standing be- 
hind the door with a startled air. 

“What are they shouting for?” he asked. “What is 
the matter now ? ” 

“ I think I am the matter,” Miss Ffrencli answered, 
“ though I scarcely know why. Ah,” giving him a quiet 
glance, “ you are afraid ! ” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


“ SARARANN.” 

The next morning there was an uproar in the town. 
The strikers from Molton and Marfort no longer remained 
in the shade. They presented themselves openly to the 
community in their true characters. At first they lounged 
about in groups at the corners and before the ale-houses, 
smoking, talking, gesticulating, or wearing sullen faces. 
But this negative state of affairs did not last long. By 
eight o’clock the discovery was made that something had 
happened in the night. 

In a score of prominent places, — on walls and posts, 
—there appeared papers upon which was written, in a 
large, bold hand, the following announcement : 

“ Haworth’s lads will stand by him. The chaps that have aught to 
say against this, let them remember that to every man there’s six bar- 
rels well loaded, and to Jem Haworth twelve. Those that want their 
brass out of Broxton Bank, let them come and get it. 

“ Writ and signed by 

“ Jem Haworth.” 

The first man who saw it swore aloud and ran to call 
others. Soon a select party stood before the place on 
which the card was posted, confronting it in different 
moods. Some were scientifically profane, some raged 
loudly, some were silent, one or two grinned. 


“ sararann: 


193 


u He staid up aw neet to do that theer,” remarked one 
of these. “ He’s getten a gizzard o’ his own, has Haworth. 
He’s done it wi’ his own hands.” 

One gentleman neither grinned nor swore. His coun 
tenance fell with singular rapidity. This was Mr. Briar- 
ley, who had come up in the rear. He held in one hano 
a pewter pot which was half empty. He had caught it 
up in the heat of the moment, from the table at which he 
had been sitting when the news came. 

“ What’s in th’ barrils ? ” he inquired. 

The man he spoke to turned to him roughly. 

“ Powder,” he answered, “ an’ lead, tha domned 
foo’ ! ” 

Mr. Briarley looked at his mug regretfully. 

“ I thowt,” he said, “ as happen it mought ha’ bin 
beer.” 

Having reflected a moment, he was on the point of 
raising the mug to his lips when a thought struck him. 
He stopped short. 

“ What’s he goin’ to do wi’ em ? ” he quavered. 

“ Ax him,” was the grim answer. “ Ax him, lad. He 
dunnot say.” 

“ He is na — ” in manifest trepidation, “ he is na — goin’ 
to — to fire ’em off ! ” 

u He’ll fire ’em off, if he comes across thee,” was the 
reply. “ Mak’ sure o’ that. An’ I should na blame him, 
neyther.” 

Mr. Briarley reflected again for a few seconds — re- 
flected deeply. Then he moved aside a little. 

“ I hannot seen Sararann sin* yesterday,” he said, softly, 
“ nor yet Janey, nor yet — th’ owd missus. I — I mun go 
and see ’em.” 

Haworth kept his word. The next day there was not a 
9 


194 


“ HA WORTH'S. 


man who went to and from the Works who could not 
have defended himself if he had been attacked. But no 
one was attacked. His course was one so unheard of, so 
unexpected, that it produced a shock. There was a lull 
in the movement, at least. The number of his enemies 
increased and were more violent, but they were forced to 
content themselves with violence of speech. Somehow, 
it scarcely seemed safe to use ordinary measures against 
Jem Haworth. He slept in his room at the Works, and 
shared watches with the force he had on guard. He 
drove through the town boldly, and carried a grim, alert 
face. He was here, and there, and everywhere ; in the 
Works, going from room to room ; at the bank, ready for 
emergencies. 

“ When this here’s over,” he said, “ I’ll give you chaps 
a spree you won’t get over in a bit, by George ! ” 

Those who presented themselves at the bank the morn- 
ing the placards were to be seen got their money. By 
noon the number arriving diminished perceptibly. In a 
day or two a few came back, and would have handed over 
their savings again willingly, but the bank refused to 
take them. 

“Carry it to Manchester,” were Haworth’s words. 
“ They’ll take it there — I won’t.” 

Those of his hands who had deserted him came out of 
their respective “sprees” in a week’s time, with chop- 
fallen countenances. They had not gained anything, and 
were somehow not in great favor among the outside 
strikers. In their most pronounced moods, they had been 
neither useful nor ornamental to their party. They were 
not eloquent, nor even violent ; they were simply idle 
vagabonds, who were no great loss to Haworth and no 
great gain to his enemies. In their own families they 


“SARARANN” 


195 


were in deep and dire disgrace, and lond were the ratings 
they received from their feminine relatives. 

The lot of Mr. Briarley was melancholy indeed. Among 
the malcontents his portion was derision and contumely ; 
at home he was received with bewailings and scathing 
severity. 

“ An 5 that theer was what tha wur up to, was it ? ” cried 
Mrs. Briarley, the day he found himself compelled by 
circumstances to reveal the true state of affairs. “ Tha’st 
j’ined th’ strikers, has tha ? ” 

“ Aye, Sararann, I’ve j’ined ’em— an’ — an’ we’re go'n’ 
to set things straight, bless yo’ — that’s what we’re goin’ to 
do. We — we’re goin’ to bring the mesters down a bit, 
an’ — an’ get our dues. That’s what we’re goin’ to do, 
Sararann.” 

It was dinner-time, and in the yard and about the street 
at the front the young members of the family disported 
themselves with vigor. Without Janey and the baby, 
who were in the house, there were ten of them. Mrs. 
Briarley went to the door and called them. Boused to 
frantic demonstrations of joy by the immediate prospect 
of dinner, they appeared in a body, tumbling over one 
another, shrieking, filling the room to overflowing. 

Generally they were disposed of in relays, for conve- 
nience’ sake. It was some time since Mr. Briarley had 
beheld the whole array. He sat upright and stared at 
them. Mrs. Briarley sat down confronting him. 

“ What art tha goin’ to do wi’ them while tha bring th’ 
mesters down ? ” she inquired. 

Mr. Briarley regarded the assembly with naive bewil- 
derment. A natural depression of spirit set in. 

“ Theer — theer seems a good many on ’em, Sararann,” 


196 


“HAWORTH'S: 


lie said, with an air of meek protestation. “ They seem 
to ha’ — to ha’ cumylated ! ” 

“ Theer’s twelve on ’em,” answered Mrs. Briarley, 
dryly, “ an’ they’ve aw getten mouths, as tha sees. An’ 
their feyther’s goin’ to bring th’ mesters down a 
bit ! ” 

Twelve pairs of eyes stolidly regarded their immediate 
progenitor, as if desirous of discovering his intentions. 
Mr. Briarley was embarrassed. 

“ Sararann,” he faltered, “send ’em out to play ’em. 
Send ’em out into th’ open air. It’s good fur ’em, th’ 
open air is, an’ they set a mon back.” 

Mrs. Briarley burst into lamentations, covering her face 
with her apron and rocking to and fro. 

“ Aye,” cried she, “ send ’em out in th’ air — happen 
they’ll fatten on it. It’s aw they’ll get, poor childer. 
Let ’em mak’ th’ most on it.” 

In these days Haworth was more of a lion than ever. 
He might have dined in state with a social potentate each 
day if he had been so minded. The bolder spirits visited 
him at the Works, and would have had him talk the mat- 
ter over. But he was in the humor for neither festivities 
nor talk. He knew what foundation his safety rested 
upon, and spent many a sleepless and feverish night. He 
was bitter enough at heart against those he had tempo- 
rarily baffled. 

“Wait till tha’rt out o’ th’ woods,” he said to Ffrench, 
when he was betrayed into expressing his sense of relief. 

Oddly enough, the feeling against Ffrench was dispro- 
portionately violent. He was regarded as an alien and a 
usurper of the rights of others. There existed a large 


“ sabarann: 


197 


disgust for his gentle birth and breeding, and a sardonic 
contempt for his incapacity and lack of experience. He 
had no prestige of success and daring, he had not shown 
himself in the hour of danger, he took all and gave noth- 
ing. 

“ I should not be surprised,” said Miss Ffrench to Mur- 
doch, “ if we have trouble yet.” 


CHAPTEK XXX. 


MRS. HAWORTH AND GRANNY DIXON. 

About this time a change appeared in little Mrs. Ha- 
worth. Sometimes when they sat together, Haworth 
found himself looking up suddenly and feeling that her 
eyes were fixed upon him, and at such times she invariably 
met his glance with a timid, startled expression, and re- 
leased herself from it as soon as she had the power. 

She had never been so tender and lavish with her inno- 
cent caresses, but there was continuously a tremulous 
watchfulness in her manner, which was almost sugges- 
tive of fear. It was not fear of him, however. She 
clung to him with all the strength of her love. At night 
when he returned home, however late, he was sure of 
finding her waiting patiently for him, and in the morning 
when he left the house he was never so early that she was 
not at his service. The man began to quail before her, 
and grow restless in secret, and be haunted, when he 
awakened in the night, by his remembrance of her. 

“ She is on the lookout for something,” he said to him- 
self, fearfully. “ What have they been saying to her ? ” 

On her part, when she sat alone, she used to try and 
think the matter out, and set it straight and account for 
it. 

“It’s the strikes,” she said, “as has set them agen him 


MRS. HA WORTH AND GRANNY DIXON 


199 


and made ’em hard an’ forgetful of all he’s done. They’d 
never have spoke so if they’d been theirselves.” 

She could scarcely have told what she had heard, or 
how the first blow had struck home. She only knew that 
here and there she had heard at first a rough jeer and then 
a terrible outspoken story, which, in spite of her disbelief, 
filled her with dread. The man who first flung the ill- 
favored story at her stopped half-way through it, the 
words dying on his lips at the sight of her face. 

It happened in one of her pensioners’ cottages, and she 
rose from her chair trembling. 

“ I didn’t think,” she said, with unconscious pathos, 
“ as the world could be so ignorant and wicked.” 

But as the ill-feeling became more violent, she met with 
the same story again and again, and often with new and 
worse versions in forms she could not combat. She be- 
gan to be haunted by vague memories of things she had 
not comprehended. A sense of pain followed her. She 
was afraid, at times, to go to the cottages, lest she should 
be confronted with something which would overwhelm 
her. Then she began to search her son’s face with a 
sense of finding some strangeness in it. She watched 
him wistfully when he had so far forgotten her presence 
as to be almost unaware of it. One night, having thrown 
himself upon a sofa and fallen into a weary sleep, he sud- 
denly started up from it to find her standing close by 
him, looking down, her face pale, her locked fingers mov- 
ing nervously. 

“ What is it f ” he exclaimed. “ What ails you ? ” 

He was startled by her falling upon her knees at his 
side, crying, and laying her shaking hand upon his shoul- 
der. 

“ You was having a bad dream, my dear,” she said, — 


200 


“ HA WORTH'S. 


“ a bad dream. I — I scarcely knowed your face, J em — 
it was so altered.” 

He sank back upon his cushions and stared at her. 
He knew he had been having no bad dream. His dreams 
were not half so evil and bitter when he slept as they 
were in these days when he wakened. 

“You always had such a good face, Jem,” she said, 
u and such a kind one. When you was a boy ” 

He stopped her almost sullenly. 

“ I’m not a boy now,” he said. “ That’s put away and 
done with.” 

“ Ho,” she answered, “ that’s true, my dear ; but you’ve 
lived an innocent life, an’ — an’ never done no wrong — no 
more than you did when you was one. And your face 
was so altered.” 

Her voice died away into a silence which, somehow, 
neither of them could break. 

It was Granny Dixon who revealed the truth in its 
barest form. Perhaps no man nor woman in Broxton 
knew more of it than this respectable ancient matron. 
Haworth and his iniquities had been the spice of her later 
life. The fact that his name was being mentioned in a 
conversation never escaped her ; she discovered it as if by 
magic and invariably commanded that the incident under 
discussion be repeated at the top of the reciter’s voice for 
her benefit, occasionally somewhat to the confusion of the 
honest matron in question. 

How it had happened that she had not betrayed all to 
Mrs. Haworth at once was a mystery to remain unsolved. 
During the little woman’s visits to the cottage, Mrs. Briar- 
ley existed in a chronic condition of fear and trem- 
bling. 

“ She’ll be out wi’ it some o’ these days, mark me,” she 


MRS. HA WORTH AND GRANNY DIXON. 201 

would quaver to Janey. “ An’ th’ Lord knows, I would 
na’ be theer fur nowt when she does.” 

But she did not do it at first. Mrs. Briarley had a 
secret conviction that the fact that she did not do so was 
due entirely to iniquity. She had seen her sit peering 
from under her brows at their guest as the simple crea- 
ture poured forth her loving praise of her son, and at such 
times it was always Mrs. Briarley’s province to repeat the 
conversation for her benefit. 

“ Aye,” Mrs. Dixon would comment with an evil smile, 
“ that’s him ! That’s Haworth ! He’s a noice chap — is 
Haworth. I know him.” 

Mrs. Haworth learned in time to fear her and to speak 
timidly in her presence, rarely referring to the subject of 
her boy’s benefactions. 

“ Only as it wouldn’t be nat’ral,” she said once to Mrs. 
Briarley, “ I should think she was set agen him.” 

“ Eh ! bless us,” was Mrs. Briarley’s answer. “ Yo’ 
need na moind her. She’s set agen ivverybody. She’s 
th’ nowtest owd piece i’ Christendom.” 

A few days after Haworth had awakened to find his 
mother standing near him, Mrs. Haworth paid a visit to 
the Briarleys. She took with her a basket, which the 
poor of Broxton had long since learned to know. In this 
case it contained stockings for the little Briarleys and a 
dress or so for the baby. 

When she had bestowed her gifts and seated herself, 
she turned to Granny Dixon with some tremor of manner. 

“ I hope you’re well, ma’am,” she said. 

Granny Dixon made no reply. She sat bent over in 
her chair, regarding her for a few seconds with unblink- 
ing gaze. Then she slowly pointed with her thin, crooked 
finger to the little presents. 

9 * 


202 


“HAWORTH'S. 


“ He sent ’em, did he % ” she trumpeted forth. “ Ha 
worth ? ” 

Mrs. Haworth quailed before her. 

“ Yes, ma’am,” she answered, “ leastways ” 

Granny Dixon stopped her. 

“He did nowt o’ th’ soart,” she cried. “Tha’rt 
leein’ ! ” 

The little woman made an effort to rise, turned pale, 
and sat down again. 

“ Ma’am ” she began. 

Granny Dixon’s eyes sparkled. 

“ Tha’rt leein’,” she repeated. “ He’s th’ worst chap i’ 
England, and aw Broxton knows it.” 

Her victim uttered a low cry of pain. Mrs. Briarley 
had left the room, and there was no one to help her. All 
the hints and jeers she had heard rushed back to her, but 
she struggled to stand up against them. 

“ It ain’t true,” she said. “ It ain’t — true.” 

Granny Dixon was just beginning to enjoy herself. A 
difference of opinion with Mrs. Briarley, which had oc- 
curred a short time before, had prepared her for the occa- 
sion. She knew that nothing would so much demoralize 
her relative and hostess as this iniquitous outbreak. 

“ They’ve been warnin’ me to keep quiet an’ not tell 
thee,” she answered, “ but I towd ’em I’d tell thee when 
I wur i’ th’ humor, an’ I’m i’ th’ humor now. Will 
Ffrench wur a devil, but he's a bigger one yet. He kep’ 
thee away because he did na want thee to know. He set 
aw th’ place by th’ ears. A decent woman would na cross 
his door -step, nor a decent mon, fur aw his brass — afore 
tha coom. Th’ lot as he used to ha’ down fro’ Lunnon an’ 
Manchester wur a shame to th’ town. I've seed ’em — 
women in paint an’ feathers, an’ men as decent lasses 


MRS. HA WORTH AND 0RANN7 DIXON. 203 

hide fro’. A good un, wur he ? Aye, he wur a good un, 
for sure.” 

She sat and chuckled a moment, thinking of Sararann’s 
coming terror and confusion. She had no objection to 
Haworth’s moral lapses, herself, but she meant to make 
the most of them while she was at it. She saw nothing 
of the anguish in the face from which all the fresh, almost 
girlish color had faded. 

“ An’ yo’ did na know as they wur na gentlefolk,” she 
proclaimed again. “ Tha thowt they wur ladies an’ gen- 
tlemen when tha coom in on ’em th’ fust night tha set 
foot i’ th’ house. A noice batch o’ ladies they wur ! An’ 
he passed ’em off on thee ! He wur sharp enow fur that, 
trust him. Ladies, bless us ! / heard tell on it — an’ so 

did aw Broxton ! ” 

The wounded creature gathered all her strength to rise 
from her chair. She stood pressing her hands against 
her heart, swaying and deadly pale. 

“ He has been a good son to me,” she said. “ A good 
son — an’ I can’t believe it. You wouldn’t yourself if — 
you was his mother, an’ knew him as — as I do.” 

She made her way to the door just as Mrs. Briarley 
came in. One glance told that excellent matron that the 
long-dreaded calamity had arrived. 

“ What’s she been up to ? ” she demanded. “ Lord ha’ 
mercy ! what’s she been up to now ? ” 

“ She’s been tellin’ me,” faltered the departing guest, 
“ that my son’s a bad man an’ a shame to me. Let me 
go, ma’am — for I’ve never heard talk like this before — 
an’ it’s made me a bit weak an’ — queer.” 

And she slipped past and was gone. 

Mrs. Briarley ’s patience deserted her. A full sense of 
what Granny Dixon’s worst might be burst in upon her; 


204 


HAWORTH'S: 


a remembrance of her own manifold wrongs and humil 
iations added itself to this sense ; for the moment, discre- 
tion ceased to appear the better part of valor. 

“ What has tha been sayin’ ? ” she cried. “ What has 
tha been sayin’ % Out wi’ it.” 

“ I’ve been telling her what tha wur afeared to tell 
her,” chuckled Mrs. Dixon with exultation. “ I towd 
thee I would an’ I’ve done it.” 

Mrs. Briarley made no more ado. She set the baby 
down upon an adjacent chair with a resonant sound, and 
then fell upon the miserable old woman and seizing her 
by the shoulders shook her until her cap flew off and 
danced upon her back and her mouth opened and shut as 
if worked by a spring. 

“ Tha brazen t, hard-hearted besom, tha ! ” she cried as 
she shook. “ Tha ill-farrant nowt, tha ! as nivver did no 
good i’ thy days an canna bear as no one else should. I 
dunnot care if I nivver see thy brass as long as I live. If 
tha wur noine i’stead o’ ninety-five I’d give thee a hidin’, 
tha brazent, hard-hearted owd piece ! ” 

Her strength failed her and she loosened her hold and 
sat down and wept aloud behind the baby, and Mrs. 
Dixon fell back in her chair, an unpleasant heap, without 
breath to speak a word or strength to do anything but 
clutch wildly at her cap, and so remained shrunken and 
staring. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

haworth’s defender. 


Mrs. Haworth made her way along the streets with 
weak and lagging steps. She had been a brisk walker in 
the days of her country life, and even now was fonder of 
going here and there on foot than of riding in state, as 
her son would have preferred. But now the way before 
her seemed long. She knew where she was going. 

“ There’s one of ’em as knows an’ will tell me,” she 
said to herself. “ She can’t have no cruel feeling against 
him, bein’ a lady, an’ knowin’ him so well. An’ if it’s 
true — not as I believe it, Jem, my dear, for I don’t — she’ll 
break it to me gentle.” 

“ Not as I believe, Jem, my dear, for I don’t,” she said 
to herself again and again. 

Her mind went back to the first hour of his life, when 
he lay, a strong-limbed child, on her weak arm, the one 
comfort given to her out of her wretched marriage. She 
thought of him again as a lad, growing and thriving in 
spite of hunger and cold, growing and thriving in spite 
of cruelty and wrong which broke her health and threw 
her helpless upon charity. He had been sharper and 
bolder than other boys, and always steadfast to his deter- 
mination. 

“ He was always good to me,” she said. 11 Child an’ 
man he’s never forgot me, or been unmindful. If there’d 


206 


“HAWORTH'S: 


have been wrong in his life, who’d have been liker to see 
it than me ? ” 

It was to Rachel Ffrench she was going, and when at 
last she reached the end of her journey, and was walking 
up the pathway to the house, Rachel Ffrench, who stood 
at the window, saw her, and was moved to wonder by her 
pallor and feebleness. 

The spring sunshine was so bright outside that the room 
seemed quite dark when she came into it, and even after 
she had seated herself the only light in it seemed to ema- 
nate from the figure of Miss Ffrench herself, who stood 
opposite her in a dress of some thin white stuff and with 
strongly fragrant yellow hyacinths at her neck and in her 
hand. 

“ You are tired,” she said. “ You should not have 
walked.” 

The woman looked up at her timidly. 

“ It isn’t that,” she answered. “ It’s somethin’ else.” 

She suddenly stretched forth her hands into the light. 

“ I’ve come here to hear about my boy,” she said. “ I 
want to hear from one as knows the truth, an’ — will tell 
me.” 

Miss French was not of a sympathetic nature. Few 
young women possessed more nerve and self-poise at try- 
ing times, and she had not at any previous period been 
specially touched by Mrs. Haworth ; but just now she was 
singularly distressed. 

“ What do you want to know,” she asked, “ that I can 
tell you ? ” 

She was not prepared for what happened next, and lost 
a little placidity through it. The simple, loving creature 
fell at her feet and caught hold of her dress, sobbing. 

“ He’s thirty-three years old,” she cried, “ an’ I’ve never 


HA WORTH'S DEFENDER. 


207 


seen the day when he’s give me a hurt. He’s been the 
pride of my life an’ the hope of it. I’ve looked up to 
him and prayed for him an’ believed in him — an’ they say 
he’s black with shameful sin — an’ I don’t know him, nor 
never did, for he’s deceived me from first to last.” 

The yellow hyacinths fell from Miss Ffrench’s hand on 
the carpet, and she looked down at them instead of at the 
upturned face. 

“ Who said it ? ” she asked. 

But she was not answered. 

“ If it’s true — not that I believe it, for I don’t — if it’s 
true, what is there left for me, as loved and honored him 
— where’s my son I thanked God for day an’ night? 
Where’s my boy as paid me for all I bore ? He’s never 
been — he’s never been at all. I’ve never been his mother 
nor he’s never been my son. If it’s true — not as I believe 
it, for I don’t — where is he ? ” 

Miss Ffrench bent down and picked up her hyacinths. 
She wondered, as she bent down, what her reply would 
be. 

“ Will you believe me f ” she asked, as she rose up again. 

“ Yes, ma’am,” she was answered, “ I know I may do 
it — thank God ! ” 

“ Yes, you may,” said Miss Ffrench, without flinching 
in the least. “ I can have no feeling for or against him. 
I can have no end to serve, one way or the other. It is 
not true. It is a lie. He is all you have believed.” 

She helped her to rise, and made her sit down again in 
an easy-chair, and then herself withdrew a little, and 
stood leaning against the window looking at her. 

“ He has done more good in Broxton than any other 
man who lives,” she said. “ He has made it what it is. 
The people who hate him and speak ill of him are those 


208 


“HAWORTH'S: 


he has benefited most. It is the way of their class, I have 
heard before, and now I believe it to be true. They have 
said worse things of men who deserve them as little as he 
does. He has enemies whom he has conquered, and they 
will never forgive him.” 

She discovered a good many things to say, having once 
begun, and she actually found a kind of epicurean enjoy- 
ment in saying them in a manner the most telling. She 
always liked to do a thing very well. 

But, notwithstanding this, the time seemed rather long 
before she was left alone to think the matter over. 

Before she had said many words her visitor was another 
woman. Life’s color came back to her, and she sat crying 
softly, tears of sheer joy and relief. 

u I knowed it couldn’t be true,” she said. “ I knowed 
it, an’ oh ! thank you, ma’am, with all a mother’s heart ! 

“ To think,” she said, smiling and sobbing, “ as I should 
have been so wicked as to let it weigh on me, when I 
knowed so well as it couldn’t never be. I should be 
almost ’shamed to look him in the face if I didn’t know 
how good he was, an’ how ready he’d be to forgive me.” 

When at last she was gone, Miss Ffrench threw herself 
into the chair she had left, rather languidly. She was 
positively tired. 

As she did so she heard a sound. She rose hastily and 
turned toward the folding-doors leading into the adjoining 
room. They had been partially closed, and as she turned 
they were pushed aside and some one came through them. 

It was Jem Haworth. 

He was haggard and disheveled, and as he approached 
her he walked unsteadily. 

“ I was in there through it all,” he said, “ and I heard 
every word.” 


HAWORTH'S DEFENDER. 


209 


She was herself again, at once. She knew she had not 
been herself ten minutes before. 

“ Well,” she said. 

He came up and stood near her — and almost abject 
tremor upon him. 

“ Will you listen to what I have got to say ? ” he said. 

She made a cold gesture of assent. 

“ If she’d gone to some and heard what they had to 
tell,” he said, “ it would have killed her. It’s well she 
came here.” 

She saw the dark color rush to his face and knew what 
was coming. 

“ It’s all true, "by ” he burst out, “ every word of 

it!” 

“ When I was in there,” he went on, with a gesture to- 
ward the other room, “ I swore I’d tell you. Make the 
best and the worst of it. It’s all true — that and more.” 

He sat down in a chair and rested his forehead on his 
hands. 

“ Things has begun to go agen me,” he said. “ They 
never did before. I’ve been used to tell myself there was 
a kind of luck in keeping it hid from her. Th’ day it 
comes on her, full force, I’m done for. I said in there 
you should know, at least. It’s all true.” 

“ I knew it was true,” remarked Miss Ffrench, “ all the 
time.” 

“ You knew ! ” he cried out. “You ! ” 

“ I have known it from the first,” she answered. “ Did 
you think it was a secret ? ” 

He turned hot and cold as he looked at her. 

“ Then, by George, you’d a reason for flaying what you 
did. What was it?” 

She remained silent, looking out of the open window 


210 


“ HA WORTH'S. 


across the flower-bright garden. She watched a couple of 
yellow butterflies eddying above a purple hyacinth for 
several seconds before she spoke, and then did so slowly 
and absently. 

“ I don’t know the reason,” she said. “ It was a strange 
thing for me to do.” 

“ It wasn’t to save me aught,” he returned. “ That’s 
plain enough.” 

“ No,” she answered, “ it was not to save you. I am 
not given to pitying people, but I think that for the time 
I wanted to save her. It was a strange thing,” she said, 
softly, “ for me to do.” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


CHRISTIAN MURDOCH. 

Christian had never spoken to Murdoch openly of his 
secret labor. He was always aware that she knew and 
understood ; he had seen her knowledge in her face al- 
most from the first, but they had exchanged no words on 
the subject. He had never wavered from his resolve 
since he had made it. Whatever his tasks had been in 
the day, or however late his return was at night, he did 
not rest until he had given a certain number of hours to 
this work. Often Christian and his mother, wakening 
long after midnight, heard him moving about in his closed 
room. He grew gaunt and hollow-eyed, but he did not 
speak of what he was doing, and they never knew wheth- 
er he was hopeful or despairing. 

Without seeing very much of the two women, he still 
found himself led to think of them constantly. He was 
vaguely conscious that since their interview in the grave- 
yard, he had never felt free from Christian Murdoch. 
More than once her mother’s words came back to him 
with startling force. “ She sits and looks on and says 
nothing. She asks nothing, but her eyes force me to 
speak.” 

He knew that she was constantly watching him. Often 
he looked up and met her glance, and somehow it was 
always a kind of shock to him. He knew that she was 


212 


HA WORTH'S: 


wondering and asking herself questions she could not ask 
him. 

“ If I gave it up or flagged,’’ he told himself, “ she 
would know without my saying a word.” 

There had grown in her a beauty of a dark, foreign 
type. The delicate olive of her skin and the dense black- 
ness of her eyes and hair caused her to be considered a 
novelty worth commenting upon by the men of Broxton 
society, which was of a highly critical nature. She went 
out a great deal as the spring advanced and began to 
know the place and people better. She developed a 
pathetic eagerness to make friends and understand those 
around her. One day, she went alone to Broxton Chapel 
and after sitting through one of Mr. Hixon’s most sul 
phurous sermons, came home in a brooding mood. 

“ Why did you go ? ” Murdoch was roused to ask. 

“ I thought,” she answered, “ it might make me better. 
I thought I would try.” 

Not long afterward, when he had gone out of the house 
and she was left sitting with Mrs. Murdoch, she suddenly 
looked up from the carpet on which her eyes had been 
fixed and asked her a question. 

“ Is it true that I am beginning to be very handsome \ ” 
she demanded. 

“ Yes,” Mrs. Murdoch answered, “it is true.” 

A dark cloud settled upon her face and her eyes fell 
again. 

“ I heard some men in the street speak aloud to each 
other about it,” she said. “ Do they speak so of all 
women who are handsome ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” her companion replied, surveying her 
critically and with some anxiety. 

“They used to speak so of — Aer,” she said, slowly. 


CHRISTIAN MURDOCH. 


213 


“ She was a beautiful woman. They were always telling 
her of it again and again, and I used to go and look at 
myself in the glass and be glad that I was thin and dark 
and ugly and that they laughed at me. I wanted to be 
hideous. Once, when I was a child, a man said : ‘ Never 
mind, she will be a beauty some day — like her mother ! ’ 
and I flew at him and struck him, and then I ran away to 
my room and fell down upon my knees and said the first 
prayer I ever said in my life. I said, ‘ O God !— if there 
is a God — strike me dead ! O God ! — if there is a God 
— strike me dead ! ’ ” 

The woman who listened shuddered. 

“Am I like — anybody ? ” she said next. 

“ I do not know,” was the answer. 

“ I could not tell myself, if I were,” she said. “ I 
have watched for it for so long that I should not see it if it 
had come. I look every day. Perhaps I am and do not 
know. Perhaps that is why they look at me in the street, 
and speak of me loud as I go by.” 

Her voice fell into a whisper. She threw herself upon 
her knees and laid her head upon the woman’s lap. 

“ Cover me with your arms,” she said. u Cover me so 
that you may not see my face. ” 

She was constantly moved to these strange outbursts of 
feeling in these days. A few nights later, as he sat at 
work after midnight, Murdoch fancied that he heard a 
sound outside his door. He went to it and opened it and 
found himself confronting the girl as she sat crouched 
upon the lowest step of the stairway. 
u What are you doing here ? ” he asked. 

“ I could not go to sleep,” she answered. “ I could not 
stop thinking of what you were doing. It seemed as if I 


214 


“HAWORTH'S. 


should have a little share in it if I were here. Are you,’ ! 
— almost timidly, — “ are you tired ? ” 

“ Yes,” he answered, “I am tired.” 

“ Are you — any nearer ? ” 

“ Sometimes 1 think so, — but so did he.” 

She rose slowly. 

“ I will go away,” she said. “ It would only disturb 
you to know 1 was here.” 

She moved a step upward and then paused uncertainly. 

“ You told me once,” she said, “ that there was no rea- 
son why I should not be as good and happy as any other 
woman. Are you sure of what you said ? ” 

“ For God’s sake, do not doubt in that way,” he said. 

She stood looking down at him, one hand resting upon 
the balustrade, her dark eyes wild with some strange 
emotion. 

“ I lie awake at night a great deal,” she said, “ and I 
am always thinking of what has gone by. Sometimes — 
lately — I have wished that — I had forgiven her.” 

“ I have wished so too,” he answered. 

“ I know that,” she returned. “ But I did not and it 
is too late. Everything is over for her and it is too late. 
For a long time I was glad, but now — I suppose I am re- 
penting. She did not repent. She suffered, but she did 
not repent. I think I am repenting.” 

When he returned to his room he found he could not 
settle down to work again. He walked up and down 
restlessly for some time, and at last threw himself upon 
the bed and lay wide awake thinking in the darkness. 

It always cost him a struggle to shut out the world and 
life and concentrate himself upon his labor in those days. 
A year before it would have been different, now there was 
always a battle to be fought. There were dreams to be 


CHRISTIAN MURDOCH. 


215 


held at bay and memories which his youth and passion 
made overwhelming forces. 

But to-night, somehow, it was Christian Murdoch who 
disturbed him. There had been a terrible wistfulness in 
her voice — a wistfulness mingled with long-repressed fear, 
which had touched him more than all. And so, when 
sleep came to him, it happened that her figure stood out 
alone from all others before him, and was his last thought. 

Among those whom Christian Murdoch learned to 
know was Janey Briarley. She saw her first in the 
streets, and again in Mrs. Murdoch’s kitchen, where she 
occasionally presented herself, attired in the huge apron, 
to assist in a professional capacity upon “ cleanin’ days.’ 
The baby having learned to walk, and Mr. Briarley being 
still an inactive member of the household, it fell upon 
J aney and her mother to endeavor to add, by such efforts 
as lay in their power, to their means for providing for the 
eleven. With the assistance of the apron, Janey was 
enabled to make herself generally useful upon all active 
occasions. 

“ Hoo’s a little thing, but hoo’s a sharp un,” Mrs. 
Briarley was wont to say. “ Hoo can work like a woman. 
I dunnot know what I’d ha’ done wi’out her. Yo’ try 
her, Missus, an’ see.” 

She spent each Saturday afternoon in Mrs. Murdoch’s 
kitchen, and it was not long before Christian drifted into 
an acquaintance with her. The first time she saw her on 
her knees before the fire-place, surrounded by black-lead 
brushes, bath-brick, and “pipe-clay” and vigorously pol- 
ishing the fender, she stopped short to look at her. 

“ How old are you ? ” she asked, after a little while. 

“ I’m twelve, goin’ on thirteen,” was the reply, without 
any cessation of the rubbing. 


216 


“ HA WORTH'S. 


The girl leaned against the side of the mantel and sur- 
veyed her critically. 

“ You don’t look that old,” she said. 

“ Aye, but I do,” returned the child, “ i’ tha looks at 
my face. I’m stunted wi’ nussin’, that’s what mak’s me 
so little.” 

She gave her face a sharp turn upward, that it might be 
seen. 

“ I’ve had enow to mak’ me look owd, I con tell thee,” 
she remarked. 

The interest she saw in her countenance inspired her. 
She became comparatively garrulous upon the subject of 
the family anxieties. “ Feyther” figured in his usual un- 
enviable role, and Granny Dixon was presented in strong 
colors, but finally she pulled herself up and changed the 
subject with startling suddenness. 

u I’ve seed thee mony a toime afore,” she said, “ an’ 
I’ve heerd folk talk about thee. I nivver heerd him say 
owt about thee, though.” 

“ Whom do you mean ? ” asked Christian, with a little 
frown. 

“Mester Murdoch. We used to see a good deal on him 
at th’ start, but we dunnot see him so often i’ these days- 
He’s getten other places to go to. Th’ quality mak’ a 
good deal on him.” 

She paused and sat up, polishing brush in hand. 

“I dunnot wonder as they say yo’re han’some,” she 
volunteered. 

“ Who says so ? ” coldly. 

“ Th’ men in th’ Works an’ th’ foak as sees yo’ i’ th’ 
street. Some on ’em says you’re han’somer than her — an’ 
that’s sayin’ a good bit, yo’ know.” 

“ ‘ Her ’ is Miss Ffrench ? ” 


CHRISTIAN MURDOCH. 


217 


“Aye. Yo’ dunnot dress as foine, an’ yo’re dark- 
skinned, but theer’s summat noice about yo’. I dunnot 
wonder as they say yo’re kan’some.” 

“ Never mind talking about that. Tell me about some- 
thing else.” 

The termination of the interview left them on suf- 
ficiently good terms. 

Janey went home with a story to tell. 

“ She’s crossed th’ seas,” she said, “ an’ lived i’ furrin 
parts. She’s getten queer ways an’ she stares at a body — 
but I loike her fur aw that.” 

“ Been i’ furrin parts ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Briarley. 
“ Bless us ! No wonder th’ poor thing’s a bit heathenish. 
Hast tha ivver seed her at Chapel, Jane Ann? ” 

The fact that she had not been seen at chapel awak- 
ened grave misgivings as to the possible presence of 
popery and the “ scarlet woman,” which objectionable 
female figured largely and in most unpleasant guise in 
the discourses of Brother Hixon. 

“ Theer’s no knowin’ what th’ poor lass has been browt 
up to,” said the good matron, “ livin’ reet under th’ Pope’s 
nose an’ nivver darin’ to say her soul’s her own. I nivver 
had no notion o’ them furrin parts mysen. Gie me Lan- 
cashire.” 

But the next week the girl made her visit to the chapel 
and sat throughout the sermon with her steadfast black 
eyes fixed upon the Reverend Mr. Hixon. Once, during 
a moment of inflammatory eloquence, that gentleman, 
suddenly becoming conscious of her gaze, stopped with a 
start and with difficulty regained his equilibrium, though 
Christian did not flinch at all, or seem to observe his 
alarm and confusion. 

She cultivated Janey with an odd persistence after this. 

10 


218 


“HAWORTH'S.” 


She asked her questions concerning her life and experh 
ences, and always seemed to find her interesting. Often 
Janey was conscious of the fact that she stood and looked 
at her for some time with an air of curiosity. 

“ Do you,” she asked her suddenly one day, “ do you 
believe all that man says to you ? ” 

Janey started into a sitting posture, as was her custom 
when roused in the midst of her labors. 

“ Eh ! bless us ! Yes,” she exclaimed. “ Dunnot yo’ ? ” 

“ No.” 

Recollections of the “ scarlet woman ” flashed across 
her young hearer’s mind. 

“ Art tha a Papist ? ” she gasped. 

“ No — not yet.” 

“ Art tha,” Janey asked, breathlessly, — “ art tha goin’ 
to be?” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“An’ tha — tha does na believe what Mester Hixon 
says ? ” 

“ No — not yet.” 

“ What does tha believe ? ” 

She stared up at the dark young face aghast. It was 
quite unmoved. The girl’s eyes were fixed on space. 

“ Nothing.” 

“Wheer — wheer does tha expect to go when tha 
dees ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” she said, coldly ; “ very often I don’t 
care.” 

Janey dropped her brush and forgot to pick it up. 

“ Why, bless thee ! ” she exclaimed with some sharp- 
ness, and also with the manner of one presenting the 
only practical solution of a difficulty, “ tha’lt go to hell, i’ 
tha does na repent ! ” 


CHRISTIAN MURDOCH. 


219 


The girl turned her eyes upon her. 

“ Does it all depend on that ? ” she demanded. 

“ Aye, to be sure,” she replied, testily. “ Does na tha 
know that?” 

“ Then,” said Christian, slowly, “ I shall not go to hell 
for I am repenting.” 

And she turned about and walked away. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


A SEED SOWN. 

There had been, as it seemed, a lull in the storm. The 
idlers did not come over from Molton and Dillup as often 
as at first. The strikes had extended until they were in full 
blast throughout the country, but “ Haworth’s,” so far, had 
held its own. Haworth himself was regarded as a kind 
of demi-god. He might have done almost anything he 
pleased. It was a source of some surprise to his admirers 
that he chose to do so little and showed no elation. One 
or two observing outsiders saw that his struggle had left 
its mark upon him. There were deep lines in his face ; 
he had lost flesh and something of his air of bravado ; at 
times he was almost haggard. As things became quieter 
he began to take sudden mysterious journeys to London 
and Manchester and various other towns. Ffrench did 
not know why he went ; in fact Ffrench knew very little 
of him but that his humors were frequently trying and 
always more morose after such absences. He himself had 
alternately blown hot and cold. Of late the fruit of his 
efforts had rather the flavor of ashes. He was of even 
less importance than before in the Works, and he continu- 
ally heard unpleasant comments and reports outside. As 
surely as his spirits rose to a jubilant height some un- 
toward circumstance occurred to dash them. 

“ I should have thought,” he said fretfully to his daugh- 


A SEED SOWN. 


221 


ter, “ that as a Broxton man and — and a gentleman, the 
people would have been with me, but they are not.” 

“ No,” said Miss Ffrencli, “ they are not.” 

She knew far more than he did himself. She was in 
the habit of not allowing any sign to escape her. When 
she took her frequent drives she kept her eyes open to all 
that happened. 

“ If they dared, there are a good many of them who 
would be insolent to me.” 

“ Why should they not dare ? ” asked her father with 
increased irritation. 

“ Because they know I am not afraid of them — because 
I set them at defiance ; and for another reason.” 

The other reason which she did not state had nothing to 
do with their daring. It was the strong one that in the 
splendor of her beauty she had her greatest power. Ordi- 
nary womanhood would scarcely in itself have appealed 
to the chivalric sentiment of Broxton, Molton and Dillup, 
but Bachel Ffrench driving slowly through the streets 
and past the “ beer-house ” doors, and turning her perfect, 
unmoved face for criticism to the crowd collected thereat, 
created a natural diversion. Those who had previously 
been in a sarcastic mood, lapsed into silence, the most in- 
veterate ’bacco consumers took their pipes out of their 
mouths, feeling it necessary to suspend all action that they 
might look after her with a clearer appreciation. They 
were neither touched nor softened, but they were certainly 
roused to an active admiration which, after a manner, held 
them in check. 

“ Theer is na another loike her i’ England,” was once 
remarked rather sullenly by one. “ Not i’ England, let 
aloan Lancashire — an’ be dom’d to her,” — this last added 
with a shade of delicate significance. 


222 


“HAWORTH'S." 


But there was one man who saw her with eyes different 
from the rest. If he had not so seen her, existence would 
have been another matter. He seemed to live a simple, 
monotonous life. He held his place in the Works, and 
did well what he had to do. He was not very thoroughly 
understood by his fellows, but there existed a vague feel- 
ing of respect for him among them. They had become 
used to his silence and absent-mindedness and the tasks 
which seemed to them eccentricities. His responsibilities 
had increased, but he shouldered them without making 
any fuss and worked among the rest just as he had been 
wont to do when he had been Floxham’s right hand 
in the engine-room. In more select circles he was regard- 
ed, somewhat to his distaste, with no inconsiderable in- 
terest. He was talked of privately as a young man with 
a future before him, though the idea of what that future 
was to be, being gathered from Ffrench, was somewhat 
indefinite. His own reserve upon the subject was rather 
resented, but still was forgiven on the score of eccentri- 
city. For the rest, he lived, as it were, in a dream. The 
days came and went, but at the close of each there were 
at least a few hours of happiness. 

And yet it was not happiness of a very tangible form. 
Sometimes, when he left the house and stepped into the 
cool darkness of the night outside, he found himself 
stopped for a moment with a sense of bewilderment. 
Haworth, who sat talking to his partner and following 
Rachel Ffrench’s figure with devouring eyes, had gained 
as much as he himself. She had not spoken often, per- 
haps, and had turned from one to the other with the same 
glance and tone, but one man left her with anger and 
misery in his breast, and the other wondered at his own 
rapture. 


A SEED SOWN. 


223 


“ I have done nothing and gained nothing,” he would 
often say to himself as he sat at the work-table afterward, 
“ but — I am madly happy.” 

And then he would lie forward with his head upon his 
folded arms, going over the incidents of the night again 
and again — living the seconds over, one by one. 

Haworth watched him closely in these days. As he 
passed him on his way to his work-room, he would look 
up and follow him with a glance until he turned in at its 
door. He found ways of hearing of his life outside and 
of his doings in the Works. 

One morning, as he was driving down the road toward 
the town, he saw in the distance the graceful figure of 
Mr. Briarley, who was slouching along in the somewhat 
muddled condition consequent upon the excitement of 
an agreeably convivial evening at the “ Who’d ha’ Thowt 
it.” 

He gave him a critical glance and the next moment 
whipped up his horse, uttering an exclamation. 

“ There’s th’ chap,” he said, “ by th’ Lord Harry ! ” 

In a few seconds more he pulled up alongside of 
him. 

“ Stop a bit, lad,” he said. 

Mr. Briarley hesitated and then obeyed with some sud- 
denness. A delicately suggestive recollection of “th’ 
barrels” induced him to do so. He ducked his head with 
a feeble smile, whose effect was somewhat obscured by a 
temporary cloud of natural embarrassment. He had not 
been brought into immediate contact with Haworth since 
the strikes began. 

“ Th’ same,” he faltered, with illusive cheerfulness, — 
“ th’ same to yo’ an’ — an’ mony on ’em.” 

Then he paused and stood holding his hat in his hand, 


224 


“ HA WORTH'S. 


endeavoring painfully to preserve the smile in all its 
pristine beauty of expression. 

Haworth leaned forward in his gig. 

“ You’re a nice chap,” he said. “ You’re a nice chap.” 

A general vague condition of mind betrayed Mr. Bri- 
arley into the momentary weakness of receiving this 
compliment literally. He brightened perceptibly, and 
his countenance became suffused with the roseate blush 
of manly modesty. 

“ My best days is ower,” he replied. “ I’ve been mis- 
forchnit, Mester — but theer wur a toime as th’ opposite 
sect ha’ said th’ same — though that theer’s a thing,” re- 
flecting deeply and shaking his head, “ as I nivver re- 
moind Sararann on.” 

The next moment he fell back in some trepidation. 
Haworth looked down at him coolly. 

“ You’re a pretty chap,” he said, “ goin’ on th’ strike 
an’ leaving your wife and children to starve at home 
while you lay in your beer and make an ass of yourself.” 

“ Eh ! ” exclaimed Mr. Briarley. 

“ And make an ass of yourself,” repeated Haworth, 
unmovedly. “ You’d better be drawin’ your wages, my 
lad.” 

Mr. Briarley’s expression changed. From bewilder- 
ment he passed into comparative gloom. 

“ It is 11a drawin’ ’em I’ve getten owt agen,” he re- 
marked. “It is na drawin’ ’em. It’s earnin’ ’em, — an’ 
ha’in’ ’em took away an’ — an’ spent i’ luxuries — berryin’- 
clubs an’ th’ loike. Brass as ud buy th’ nessycerries.” 

“ If we’d left you alone,” said Haworth, “ where would 
your wife and children be now, you scoundrel ? Who’s 
fed ’em and clothed ’em while you’ve been on th’ spree ? 
Jem Haworth, blast you ! — Jem Haworth.” 


A SEED SOWN. 


225 


He put his hand in his pocket, and, drawing forth a 
few jingling silver coins, tossed them to him. 

“ Take these,” he said, “ an’ go an’ spend ’em on th’ 

1 nessycerries,’ as you call ’em. You’ll do it, I know well 
enow. You’ll be in a worse box than you are now, before 
long. We’ll have done with you chaps when Murdoch’s 
finished the job he’s got on hand.” 

“ What’s that ? ” faltered Briarley. “ I ha’ na heerd on 
it.” 

Haworth laughed and picked up his whip and reins. 

“Ask him,” he answered. “He can tell you better 
than I can. He’s at work on a thing that’ll set the mas- 
ters a good bit freer than they are now. That’s all I 
know. There won’t be any need o’ so many o’ you lads. 
You’ll have to make your brass out of a new trade.” 

He bent a little to settle a strap. 

“ Go and tell the rest on ’em,” he said. “ You’ll do it 
when you’re drunk enow, I dare say.” 

Briarley fumbled with his coins. His air became specu- 
lative. 

“What are you thinkin’ on?” demanded Haworth. 
“ It’s a bad lookout, isn’t it ? ” 

Mr. Briarley drew a step nearer the gig’s side. He ap- 
peared somewhat pale, and spoke in a whisper. Muddled 
as he was, he had an idea or so left. 

“ It’ll be a bad lookout for him,” he said. “ Bless yo’ ! 
They’d tear him to pieces. They’re in th’ humor for it. 
They’ve been carryin’ a grudge so long they’re ready fur 
owt. They’ve nivver thowt mich o’ him, though, but 
start ’em on that an’ they wouldn’t leave a shred o’ it to- 
gether— nor a shred o’ him, eyther, if they got the 
chance.” 

Haworth laughed again. 

10 * 


226 


“ HAWORTH' 8: 


“ Wouldn’t they ? ” he said. “ Let ’em try. He’d have 
plenty to stand by him. Th’ masters are on his side, my 
lad.” * 

He touched his horse, and it began to move. Sud- 
denly he checked it and looked back, speaking again. 

“ Keep it to yourself, then,” he said, “ if there’s dan- 
ger, and keep my name out of it, by George, if you want 
to be safe ! ” 

Just as he drove up to the gates of the yard Murdoch 
passed him and entered them. Until then — since he had 
left Briarley — he had not spoken. He had driven rapidly 
on his way with a grim, steady face. As Murdoch went 
by he got down from his gig, and went to the horse’s 
head. He stood close to it, knotting the reins. 

“Nor of him either,” he said. “Nor of him either, 
by ” 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


A CLIMAX. 

The same night Mr. Briarley came home in a condi- 
tion more muddled and disheveled than usual. He 
looked as if he had been hustled about and somewhat un- 
ceremoniously treated. He had lost his hat, and was 
tremulous and excited. He came in without the trifling 
ceremony of opening the door. In fact, he fell up against 
it and ran in, and making an erratic dive at a chair, sat 
down. Granny Dixon, who had been dozing in her usual 
seat, was roused by the concussion and wakened and sat 
up, glaring excitedly. 

“ He’s been at it again ! ” she shouted. “ At it again ! 
He’ll nivver ha’ none o’ my brass to mak’ way wi\ He’s 
been at ” 

Mrs. Briarley turned upon her. 

“ Keep thy mouth shut ” she said. 

The command was effective in one sense, though not in 
another. Mrs. Dixon stopped in the midst of the word 
“ at ” with her mouth wide open, and so sat for some 
seconds, with the aspect of an ancient beldam ordinarily 
going by machinery and suddenly having had her works 
stopped. 

She would probably have presented this appearance 
for the remainder of the evening if Mrs. Briarley had not 
addressed her again. 


228 


“HAWORTH'S: 


“ Shut thy mouth ! ” she said. 

The works were set temporarily in motion, and her 
countenance slowly resumed its natural lines. She ap- 
peared to settle down all over and sink and become 
smaller, though, as she crouched nearer the fire, she had 
rather an evil look, which seemed to take its red glow 
into her confidence and secretly rage at it. 

“ What’s tha been doin’ % ” Mrs. Briarley demanded of 
her better half. “ Out wi’ it ! ” 

Mr. Briarley had already fallen into his favorite posi- 
tion. He had placed an elbow upon each knee and care- 
fully supported his disheveled head upon his hands. He 
had also already begun to shed tears, which dropped and 
made disproportionately large circles upon the pipe- 
clayed floor. 

“ I’m a misforchnit chap,” he said. “ I’m a misforch- 
nit chap, Sararann, as nivver had no luck.” 

“ What’s tha been doin’ \ ” repeated Mrs. Briarley, with 
even greater sharpness than before ; “ out wi’ it ! ” 

“ Nay,” said Mr. Briarley, u that theer’s what I’ve get- 
ten mysen i’ trouble wi’. I wunnot do it again.” 

“ Theer’s summat i’ beer,” he proceeded, mournfully, 
“ as goes agen a man. He towd me not to say nowt an’ I 
did na mean to, but,” with fresh pathos, “ theer’s summat 
i’ beer as winds — as winds a chap up. I’m not mich o’ 
th’ speakin’ loine, Sararann, but afore I knowed it, I wur 
a-makin’ a speech — an’ when I bethowt me an’ wanted to 
set down — they wur bound to mak’ me — go on to th’ eend 
— an’ when I would na — theer wur a good bit — o’ public 
opinion igspressed — an’ I did na stop — to bid ’em good- 
neet. Theer wur too much agoin’ on.” 

“ What wur it aw about ? ” asked Mrs. Briarley. 

But Mr. Briarley’s voice had been gradually becoming 


A CLIMAX. 


229 


lower and lower, and his words more incoherent. He 
was sinking into slumber. When she repeated her ques- 
tion, he awakened with a violent start. 

“ I’m a misforchnit chap,” he murmured, “ an’ I dunnot 
know. ’Scaped me, Sararann — owin’ to misforchins.” 

“ Eh ! ” remarked Mrs. Eriarley, regarding him with 
connubial irony, a but tha art a graidely foo’! I’d gie 
summat to see a graidelier un ! ” 

Eut he was so far gone by this time that there was no 
prospect of a clear solution of the cause of his excitement. 
And so she turned to Granny Dixon. 

“ It’s toime fur thee to be i’ bed,” she shouted. 

Granny Dixon gave a sharp, stealthy move round, and 
a sharp, stealthy glance up at her. 

“ I — dunnot want to go,” she quavered shrilly. 

“ Aye, but tha does,” was the answer. “ An’ tha’rt 
goin’ too. Get up, Missus.” 

And singularly enough, Mrs. Dixon fumbled until she 
found her stick, and gathering herself up and leaning 
upon it, made her rambling way out of the room carrying 
her evil look with her. 

“ Eless us ! ” Mrs. Eriarley had said in confidence to a 
neighbor a few davs before. “ I wur nivver more feart 
i’ my life than when I’d done it, an’ th’ owd besom set 
theer wi’ her cap o’ one side an’ her breath gone. I did 
na know but I’d put an eend to her. I nivver should ha’ 
touched her i’ th’ world if I had na been that theer up- 
set as I did na know what I wur doin’. I thowt she’d be 
up an’ out i’ th’ street as soon as she’d getten her breath 
an’, happen, ca’ on th’ porlice. An’ to think it’s been th’ 
settlin’ on her! It feart me to see it at th’ first, but I 
wur na goin’ to lose th’ chance an’ th’ next day 1 give it 
to her up an’ down — tremblin’ i’ my shoes aw th’ toime. 


230 


HA WORTH'S : 


I says, 1 Tha may leave thy brass to who tha loikes, but 
tha’lt behave thysen while tha stays here or Sararann 
Briarley’ll see about it. So mak’ up thy moind.’ An’ 
I’ve niwer had a bit o’ trouble wi’ her fro’ then till now. 
She conna bide th’ soight o’ me, but she dare na go agen 
me fur her life.” 

The next day Haworth went away upon one of his mys- 
terious journeys. 

“ To Leeds or Manchester, or perhaps London,” said 
F french. “ I don’t know where.” 

The day after was Saturday, and in the afternoon 
Janey Briarley presented herself to Mrs. Murdoch at an 
early hour, and evidently with something on her mind. 

“ I mun get through wi’ th’ cleanin’ an’ go whoam 
soon,” she said. “Th’ stroikers is over fro’ Molton an’ 
Dillup again. Theer’s summat up among ’em.” 

“We dunnot know nowt about it,” she answered, when 
farther questioned. “We on’y know they’re here an’ i’ 
a ill way about summat they’ve fun out. Feyther, he’s 
aw upset, but he dare na say nowt fur fear o’ th’ Union. 
Mother thinks they’ve getten summat agen Ffrench.” 

“Does Mr. Ffrench know that?” Mrs. Murdoch,' 
asked. 

“ He’ll know it soon enow, if he does na,” dryly. 
“ They’ll noan stand back at tellin’ him if they’re i’ th’ 
humor — but he’s loiker to know than not. He’s too feartj' 
on ’em not to be on th’ watch.” 

It was plain enough before many hours had passed that 
some disturbance was on foot. The strikers gathered 
about the streets in groups, or lounged here and there 
sullenly. They were a worse-looking lot than they had 
been at the outset. Idleness and ill-feeling and dissipa- 


A CLIMAX. 


231 


tion had left their marks. Clothes were shabbier, faces 
more brutal and habits plainly more vicious. 

At one o’clock Mr. Ffrench disappeared from his room 
at the bank, no one knew exactly how or when. All the 
morning he had spent in vacillating between his desk 
and a window looking into the street. There was a 
rumor among the clerks that he had been seen vanishing 
through a side door leading into a deserted little back 
street. 

An hour later he appeared in the parlor in which his 
daughter sat. He was hot and flurried and out of breath. 

“Those scoundrels are in the town again,” he said. 
“ And there is no knowing what they are up to. It was 
an insane thing for Haworth to go away at such a time. 
By night there will be an uproar.” 

“If there is an uproar,” said Miss Ffrench, “ they will 
come here. They know they can do nothing at the 
Works. He is always ready for them there — and they 
are angrier with you than they are with him.” 

“ There is no reason why they should be,” Ffrench pro- 
tested. “ I took no measures against them, heaven 
knows.” 

“ I think,” returned Rachel, “ that is the reason. You 
have been afraid of them.” 

He colored to the roots of his hair. 

“ You are saying a deuced unpleasant thing, my dear,” 
he broke forth. 

“ It is true,” she answered. “ What would be the use 
in not saying it ? ” 

He had no reply to make. The trouble was that he 
never had a reply to make to these deadly simple state- 
ments of hers. 

He began to walk up and down the room. 


232 


“ HAWORTH'S : 


“ The people we invited to dine with us,” she said, 
i( will not come. They will hear what is going on and 
will be afraid. It is very stupid.” 

“ I wonder,” he faltered, “if Murdoch will fail us. 
He never did before.” 

“ Ho,” she answered. “ He will not stay away.” 

The afternoon dragged its unpleasant length along. 
As it passed Ffrench found in every hour fresh cause for 
nervousness and excitement. The servant who had been 
out brought disagreeable enough tidings. The small 
police force of the town had its hands full in attending 
to its business of keeping order. 

“ If we had had time to send to Manchester for some 
assistance,” said Mr. Ffrench. 

“ That would have been reason enough for being at- 
tacked,” said .Rachel. “ It would have shown them that 
we felt we needed protection.” 

“We may need it, before all is quiet again,” retorted 
her father. 

“ We may,” she answered, “or we may not.” 

By night several arrests had been made, and there was 
a good deal of disorder in the town. A goodly quantity 
of beer had been drunk and there had been a friendly 
fight or so among the strikers themselves. 

Rachel left her father in the drawing-room and went 
upstairs to prepare for dinner. When she returned an 
hour afterward he turned to her with an impatient start. 

“ Why did you dress yourself in that manner ? ” he 
exclaimed. “ You said yourself our guests would not 
come.” 

“ It occurred to me,” she answered, “ that we might 
have visitors after all.” 

But it was as she had prophesied, — the guests they had 


A CLIMAX. 233 

expected did not come. They were discreet and well- 
regulated elderly people who had lived long in the manu- 
facturing districts, and had passed through little unpleas- 
antnesses before. They knew that under existing circum- 
stances it would be wiser to remain at home than to run 
the risk of exposing themselves to spasmodic criticism 
and its results. 

But they had visitors. 

The dinner hour passed and they were still alone. 
Even Murdoch had not come. A dead silence reigned in 
the room. Ffrench was trying to read and not succeed- 
ing very well. Miss Ffrench stood by the window look- 
ing out. It was a clear night and the moon was at full ; 
it was easy to see far up the road upon whose whiteness 
the trees cast black shadows. She was looking up this 
road toward the town. She had been watching it steadily 
for some time. Once her father had turned to her rest- 
lessly, saying : 

“ Why do you stand there ? You — you might be ex- 
pecting something to happen.” 

She did not make any reply and still retained her posi- 
tion. But about half an hour afterward, she turned sud- 
denly and spoke in a low, clear tone. 

“ If you are afraid, you had better go away,” she said. 
“ They are coming.” 

It was evident that she at least felt no alarm, though 
there was a thrill of excitement in her voice. Mr. 
Ffrench sprang up from his seat. 

“ They are coming ! ” he echoed. “ Good God ! What 
do you mean ? ” 

It was not necessary that she should enter into an ex- 
planation. A clamor of voices in the road told its own 
story. There were shouts and riotous cries which, in a 


234 


“HAWORTH'S: 


moment more, were no longer outside the gates but with- 
in them. An uproarious crowd of men and boys poured 
into the garden, trampling the lawn and flower-beds be- 
neath their feet as they rushed and stumbled over them. 

“ Wheer is he ? ” they shouted. “ Bring the chap out, 
an’ let’s tak’ a look at him. Bring him out ! ” 

Ffrench moved toward the door of the room, and then, 
checked by some recollection, turned back again. 

“ Good Heaven ! ” he said, “ they are at their worst, 
and here we are utterly alone. Why did Haworth go 
away ? Why ” 

His daughter interrupted him. 

“ There is no use in your staying.” she said. “ It will 
do no good. You may go if you like. There is the back 
way. Hone of them are near it.” 

“ I — I can’t leave you here,” he stammered. “ Haworth 
was mad ! Why, in Heaven’s name ” 

“ There is no use asking why again,” she replied. “ I 
cannot tell you. I think you had better go.” 

Her icy coldness would have been a pretty hard thing 
to bear if he had been less terror-stricken ; but he saw 
that the hand with which she held the window-curtain 
was shaking. 

He did not know, however, that it was not shaking with 
fear, but with the power of the excitement which stirred 
her. 

It is scarcely possible that he would have left her, not- 
withstanding his panic, though, for a second, it nearly 
seemed that he had so far lost self-control as to be waver- 
ing ; but as he stood, pale and breathless, there arose a 
fresh yell. 

“ Wheer is he ? Bring him out ! Murdoch, th’ ’Meri- 
can chap ! We’re coom to see him ! ” 


A CLIMAX. 


235 


“ What’s that ? ” he asked. “ Who is it they want ? ” 

“ Murdoch ! Murdoch ! ” was shouted again. u Let’s 
ha’ a word wi’ Murdoch ! We lads ha’ summat to say to 
him ! ” 

“ It is not I they want,” he said. u It is Murdoch. It 
is not I at all ! ” 

She dashed the window-curtain aside and turned on him. 
He was stunned by the mere sight of her face. Every 
drop of blood seemed driven from it. 

“ You are a coward ! ” she cried, panting. “ A coward ! 
It is a relief to you ! ” 

He stood staring at her. 

“ A — a relief ! ” he stammered. “ I — don’t understand 
you. What is the matter ? ” 

She had recovered herself almost before he had begun 
to speak. It was over in a second. He had not had time 
to realize the situation before she was moving toward the 
window. 

a They shall see m^,” she said. “ Let us see what they 
will have to say to me.” 

He would have stopped her, but she did not pay the 
slightest attention to his exclamation. The window was 
a French one, opening upon a terrace. She flung it back- 
ward, and stepped out and stood before the rioters. 

For a second there was not a sound. 

They had been expecting to see a man, — perhaps 
Ffrench, perhaps Murdoch, perhaps even a representative 
of the small police force, looking as if he felt himself 
one too many in the gathering, or not quite enough, — and 
here was simply a tall young woman in a dazzling dress 
of some rich white stuff, and with something sparkling 
upon her hands and arms and in her high-dressed blonde 
hair. 


236 


TIA WORTH'S. 


The moonlight struck full upon her, and she stood in it 
serene and bore unmoved the stupid stare of all their eyes. 
It was she who spoke first, and then they knew her, and 
the spell which held them dumb was broken. 

“ What do you want ? ” she demanded. “ I should like 
to hear.” 

Then they began to shout again. 

“We want Murdoch ! ” they said. “We ha’ surnmat to 
say to him.” 

“ He is not here,” she said. “ He has not been here.” 

“ That’s a lee,” remarked a gentleman on the outskirts 
of the crowd. “ A dom’d un.” 

She made no answer, and, singularly enough, nobody 
laughed. 

“ Why do you want him ? ” she said next. 

“We want to hear about that contrapshun o’ his as is 
goin’ to mak’ th’ mesters indypendent. He knows what 
we want him fur. We’ve just been to his house and 
brokken th’ winders. He’s getten wind on us cornin’, an’ 
he made off wi’ th’ machine. He’ll be here afore long if 
he is na here now, an’ we’re bound to see him.” 

“ He’ll be up to see thee,” put in the gentleman on the 
outskirts, “ an’ I dunnot blame him. I’m glad I coom 
mysen. Tha’s worth th’ trip — an’ I’m a Dillup chap, 
moind yo’.” 

She stood quite still as before and let them look at her, 
to see what effect the words had produced. It seemed as 
if they had produced none. 

“ If you have come to see him,” she said, after a few 
seconds, “ you may go away again. He is not here. I 
know where he is, and you cannot reach him. If there 
has not been some blunder, he is far enough away.” 

She told the lie without flinching in the least, and with 


A CLIMAX. 


237 


a clever coolness which led her to think in a flash before- 
hand even of the clause which would save her dignity if 
he should chance to come in the midst of her words. 

“ If you want to break windows,” she went on, “ break 
them here. They can be replaced afterward, and there is 
no one here to interfere with you. If you would like to 
vent your anger upon a woman, vent it upon me. 1 am 
not afraid of you. Look at me ! ” 

She took half a step forward and presented herself to 
them — motionless. Not a fellow among them but felt that 
she would not have stirred if they had rushed upon her 
bodily. The effect of her supreme beauty and the cold 
defiance which had in it a touch of delicate insolence, 
was indescribable. This was not in accordance with their 
ideas of women of her class; they were used to seeing 
them discreetly keeping themselves in the shade in time 
of disorder. Here was one — “ one of the nobs,” as they 
said — who flung their threats to the wind and scorned 
them. 

What they would have done when they recovered them- 
selves is uncertain. The scale might have turned either 
way; but, just in the intervening moment which would 
have decided it, there arose a tumult in their midst. A 
man pushed his way with mad haste through the crowd 
and sprang upon the terrace at her side, amid yells and 
hoots from those who had guessed who he was. 

An instant later they all knew him, though his dress 
was disordered, his head was bare, and his whole face and 
figure seemed altered by his excitement. 

“ Dom him ! ” they yelled. “ Theer he is, by ! ” 

“I towd thee he’d coom,” shouted the cynic. “He did 
na get th’ tellygraph, tha sees.” 

He turned on them, panting and white with rage. 


238 


“HA WORTH'S: 


“ You devils ! ” he cried. “ You are here too I Haven’t 
you done enough? Isn’t bullying and frightening two 
women enough for yon, that you must come here?” 

“ That’s reet,” commented the cynic. “ Stond up fur 
th’ young woman, Murdoch. I’d do it mysen i’ I wur o’ 
that soide. Alius stond up fur th’ sect ! ” 

Murdoch spoke to Rachel Ffrench. 

“You must go in,” he said. “There is no knowing 
what they will do.” 

“ I shall stay here,” she answered. 

She made an impatient gesture. She was shuddering 
from head to foot. 

“ Don’t look at or speak to me,” she said. “ You — you 
make me a coward.” 

“ They will stand at nothing,” he protested. 

“ I will not turn my hack upon them,” she said. “ Let 
them do their worst.” 

He turned to the crowd again. Her life itself was in 
danger, and he knew he could not move her. He was 
shuddering himself. 

“ Who is your leader ? ” he said to the men. “ I sup- 
pose you have one.” 

The man known as Foxy Gibbs responded to their cries 
of his name by pushing his way to the front. He was a 
big, resolute, hulking scamp who had never been known 
to do an honest day’s work, and was yet always in funds 
and at liberty to make incendiary speeches where beer and 
tobacco were plentiful. 

“What do you want of me?” demanded Murdoch. 
“ Speak out.” 

The fellow was ready enough with his words, and forci- 
ble too. 

“ We’ve heard tell o’ summat goin’ on we’re not goin’ 


A CLIMAX. 


239 


to stond,” he said. “ We’ve heerd tell o’ a chap ’at’s con- 
trivin’ sum mat to do away wi’ them as does th’ work now 
an’ mak’s theer bread by it. We’ve heerd as th’ mesters 
is proidin’ theersens on it an’ laughin’ in their sleeves. 
We’ve heerd tell as theer’s a chap makkin’ what’ll eend i’ 
mischief — an’ yo’re th’ chap.” 

“ Who told you ? ” 

u Nivver moind who. A foo’ let it out* an’ we wur na 
in th’ humor to let it pass. We’re goin’ to sift th’ thing 
to th’ bottom. Yo’re th’ chap as was nam’t. What ha’ 
yo’ getten to say ? ” 

“Just one thing,” he answered. “ It’s a lie from first 
to last — an accursed lie ! ” 

“ Lee or not, we’re goin’ to smash th’ thing, whatever it 
is. We’re noan particular about th’ lee. We’ll mak’ th’ 
thing safe first, an’ then settle about th’ lee.” 

Murdoch thrust his hands in his pockets and eyed them 
with his first approach to his usual sang-froid. 

“ It’s where you won’t find it,” he said. “ I’ve made 
sure of that.” 

It was a mad speech to have made, but he had lost self- 
control and balance. He was too terribly conscious of 
Rachel Ffrench’s perilous nearness to be in the mood to 
weigh his words. He saw his mistake in a second. There 
was a shout and a surging movement of the mob toward 
him, and Rachel Ffrench, with an indescribable swiftness, 
had thrown herself before him and was struck by a stone 
which came whizzing through the air. 

She staggered under the stroke but stood upright in a 
breadth’s time. 

“ My God ! ” Murdoch cried out. “ They have struck 
you. They have struck you ! ” 

He was half mad with his anguish and horror. The 


240 


“ HA WORTH'S: 


sight of the little stream of blood which trickled from her 
temple turned him sick with rage. 

“ You devils ! ” he raved, “ do you see what you have 
done?” 

But the play was over. Before he had finished his out- 
cry there was a shout of “ tli’ coppers ! th’ coppers ! ” and 
a rush and skurry and tumble of undignified retreat. 
The police force with a band of anti-strikers behind them 
had appeared upon the scene in the full glory of the uni- 
form of the corporation, and such was the result of habit 
and the majesty of the law that those who were not taken 
into custody incontinently took to their heels and scattered 
in every direction, uttering curses loud and deep, since they 
were not yet prepared to resist an attack more formally. 

In half an hour the trampled grass and flower-beds and 
broken shrubs were the only signs of the tumult. Mr. 
Ffrench was walking up and down the dreary room in as 
nervous a condition as ever. 

“ Good heavens, Bachel ! ” he said. “ You must have 
been mad — mad.” 

She had persistently refused to lie down and sat in an 
easy-chair, looking rather colorless and languid. When 
they were left alone, Murdoch came and stood near her. 
He was paler than she, and haggard and worn. Before 
she knew what he was about to do he fell upon his knees, 
and covered her hands with kisses. 

“ If any harm had come to you,” he cried — “ if any 
harm had come to you ” 

She tried to drag her hands away with an angry face, 
but he clung to them. And then quite suddenly all her 
resistance ceased and her eyes fixed themselves upon him 
as if with a kind of dread. 


CHAPTEK XXXV. 


“ I AM NOT READY FOR IT YET.” 

In expectation of something very serious happening, 
the constabulary re-enforced itself the day following and 
assumed a more imposing aspect, and was prepared to be 
very severe indeed upon all short-comings or symptoms of 
approaching disorder. But somewhat to its private dis- 
appointment, an unlooked-for quiet prevailed — an almost 
suspicious quiet, indeed. There were rumors that a secret 
meeting had been held by the strikers the night before, 
and the result of it was that in the morning there ap- 
peared to have been a sudden dispersing, and only those 
remained behind who were unavoidably detained by the 
rather unfortunate circumstance of having before them 
the prospect of spending a few weeks in the compar- 
ative retirement of the county jail. These gentlemen 
peremptorily refused to give any definite explanation of 
their eccentricities of conduct of the night before and 
were altogether very unsatisfactory indeed, one of them 
even going so far, under the influence of temporary ex- 
citement, as to be guilty of the indiscretion of announcing 
his intention of “ doin’ fur ” one or two enemies of his 
cause when his term expired, on account of which amiable 
statement three months were added to said term upon the 
spot. 

It was Janey Briarley who gave Murdoch his warning 

11 


242 


“ HAWORTH'S . 


upon the night of the riot. Just before he left the Works 
she had come into the yard, saying she had a message for 
Haworth, and on being told that he was away, had asked 
for Murdoch. 

“ He’ll do if I canna see th’ mester,” she remarked. 

But when she reached Murdoch’s room she stepped 
across the threshold and shut the door cautiously. 

4 4 Con anybody hear? ’’she demanded, with an uneasy 
glance round. 

“ No,” he answered. 

“ Then cut thy stick as fast as tha con an’ get thee 
whoam an’ hoid away that thing tha’rt makkin. Th’ 
stroikers is after it. Nivver moind how I fun’ out. Cut 
an’ run. I axt fur Haworth to throw ’em off th’ scent. 
I knowed he wurna here. Haste thee ! ” 

Her manifest alarm convinced him that there was foun- 
dation enough for her errand, and that she had run some 
risk in venturing it. 

“ Thank you,” he said. “ You may have saved me a 
great deal. Let us go out quietly as if nothing was in 
hand. Come along.” 

And so they went, he talking aloud as they passed 
''through the gates, and as it was already dusk he was out 
on the Broxton road in less than half an hour, and when 
he returned the mob had been to his mother’s house and 
broken a few windows in their rage at his having escaped 
them, and had gone off shouting that they would go to 
Ffrench’s. 

“ He’ll be fun theer,” some one said — possibly the cynic. 
“ Th’ young woman is a sweetheart o’ his an’ yo’ll be loike 
to hear o’ th’ cat wheer th’ cream stonds.” 

His mother met him on the threshold with the news of 
the outbreak and the direction it had taken. A few brief 


“7 AM NOT READY FOR IT YET.' 1 243 

sentences told him all, and at the end of them he left the 
house at once. 

“ I am going there to show myself to them,” he said. 
“ They will not return here. You are safe enough now. 
The worst is over here, but there is no knowing what 
they may do there when they find themselves baffled.” 

It was after midnight when he came back, and then it 
was Christian who opened the door for him. 

He came into the little dark passage with a slow, un- 
steady step. For a second he did not seem to see her at 
all. His face was white, his eyes were shining and his 
brow was slightly knit in lines which might have meant 
intense pain. 

“ Are you hurt ? ” she asked. 

It was as if her voice wakened him from a trance. He 
looked at her for the first time. 

“ Hurt ! ” he echoed. “ No — not hurt.” 

He went into the sitting-room and she followed him. 
The narrow horse-hair sofa upon which his father had lain 
so often stood in its old place. He threw himself full 
length upon it and lay looking straight before him. 

“ Are you — are you sure you are not hurt ? ” she fal- 
tered. 

He echoed her words again. 

“ Am I sure I am not hurt ? ” he repeated dreamily. 
“ Yes, I am sure of it.” 

And then he turned slightly toward her and she saw 
that the look his face wore was not one of pain, but of 
strange rapture. 

“ I am not hurt,” he said quite slowly. “ I am madly 
happy.” 

Then she understood. She was as ignorant of many 
things as she was bitterly wise in others, but she had not 


244 


“HAWORTH'S.' 


been blind and she understood quite clearly. She sat 
down upon a low seat, from which she could see him, her 
hands clasped on her knee. 

“ I knew,” she said at last, “ that it would come some 
day — I knew that it would.” 

“Did you?” he answered in the same dreamy way. 
“ I did not. I did not even hope for it. I do not compre- 
hend it even now.” 

“ I do,” she returned, “ quite well.” 

He scarcely seemed to hear her. 

“ I hoped for nothing,” he said. “ And now — I am 
madly happy.” 

There was nothing more for her to say. She had a 
fancy that perhaps in the morning he would have for- 
gotten that he had spoken. It seemed as if even yet he 
was hardly conscious of her presence. But before she 
went away she asked him a question. 

“ Where did you put the model ? ” 

He gave a feverish start. 

“ Where ?” And falling back into his previous man- 
ner — “I took it to the chapel yard. I knew they would 
not go there. There was space enough behind the — the 
head-stone and the old wall for it to stand, and the grass 
grew long and thick. I left it there.” 

“ It was a safe place,” she answered. “ When shall you 
bring it back ? ” 

He sighed impatiently. 

“ Not yet,” he said. “ Not just yet. Let it stay there a 
while. I am not — ready for it. Let it stay.” 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


SETTLING AN ACCOUNT. 

It was not until the week following that Haworth re* 
turned, and then he came without having given any pre- 
vious warning of his intention. Ffrench, sitting in his 
office in a rather dejected mood one morning, was startled 
by his entering with even less than his usual small cere- 
mony. 

“ My dear Haworth,” he exclaimed. “ Is it possible ! ” 

His first intention had been to hold out his hand, but he 
did not do so. In fact he sat down again a little suddenly 
and uneasily. Haworth sat down too, confronting him 
squarely. 

“ What have you been up to ? ” he demanded. “ What 
is this row about ? ” 

“ About ! ” echoed Ffrench. “ It’s the most extraordi- 
nary combination of nonsense and misunderstanding I 
ever heard of in my life. How it arose there is no know- 
ing. The fellows are mad ! ” 

“ Aye,” angrily, “ mad enow, but you can’t stop ’em 
now they’ve got agate. It’s a devilish lookout for us. 
I’ve heard it all over the country, and the more you say 
agen it the worse it is. They’re set on it all through Lan- 
cashire that there’s a plot agen ’em, and they’re fur fettlin’ 
it their own fashion.” 

“You — you don’t think it will be worse for us?” his 


246 


“ HA WORTH'S: 


partner suggested weakly. “ It’s struck me that — in the 
end — it mightn’t be a bad thing — that it would change the 
direction of their mood.” 

“ Wait until the end comes. It’s not here yet. Tell 
me how it happened.” 

Upon the 'whole, Mr. Ffrench made a good story of it. 
He depicted the anxieties and dangers of the occasion 
very graphically. He had lost a good deal of his enthu- 
siasm on the subject of the uncultivated virtues and 
sturdy determination of the manufacturing laboring classes, 
and he was always fluent, as has been before mentioned. 
He was very fluent now, and especially so in describing the 
incident of his daughter s presenting herself to the mob 
and the result of her daring. 

“ She might have lost her life,” he said at one point. 
“ It was an insane thing to have done — an insane thing. 
She surprised them at first, but she could not hold them 
in check after Murdoch came. She will bear the mark 
of the stone for many a day.” 

“ They threw a stone, blast ’em, did they ? ” said Ha- 
worth, setting his teeth. 

“ Yes — but not at her. Perhaps they would hardly 
have dared that after all. It was thrown at Murdoch.” 

“ And he stepped out of the way % ” 

“ Oh no. He did not see the man raise his arm, but 
she did, and was too much alarmed to reflect, I suppose 
— and — in fact threw herself before him.” 

He moved back disturbedly the next instant. Haworth 
burst forth with a string of oaths. The veins stood out 
like cords on his forehead ; he ground his teeth. When 
the outbreak was over he asked an embarrassing question. 

“ Where were you ? ” 

“ I ? ” — with some uncertainty of tone. “ I — had not 


SETTLING AN ACCOUNT. 


247 


gone out. 1 — I did not wish to infuriate them. It seemed 
to me that — that — that a great deal depended upon their 
not being infuriated.” 

“ Aye,” said Haworth, “ a good deal.” 

He asked a good many questions Ffrench did not quite 
understand. He seemed in a questioning humor and 
went over the ground step by step. He asked what the 
mob had said and done and even how they had looked. 

“ It’s a bad lookout for Murdoch,” he said. “ They’ll 
have a spite again’ him. They’re lyin’ quiet a bit now, 
because it’s safest, but they’ll carry their spite.” 

At Ffrench’s invitation he went up to the house with 
him to dinner. As they passed into the grounds, Murdoch 
passed out. He was walking quickly and scarcely seemed 
to see them until Ffrench spoke. 

“ It’s a queer time of day for him to be here,” said Ha- 
worth, when he was gone. 

Ffrench’s reply held a touch of embarrassment. 

“ He is not usually here so early,” he said. “ He has 
probably been doing some little errand for Rachel.” 

The truth was that he had been with her for an hour, 
and that, on seeing Haworth coming down the road with 
her father, she had sent him away. 

“ I want to be alone when he comes,” she had said. 

And when Murdoch said “ Why ? ” she had answered, 
“ Because it will be easier.” 

When they came in, she was sitting with the right side 
of her face toward them. They could see nothing of the 
mark upon her left temple. It was not a large mark 
nor a disfiguring one, but there were traces of its presence 
in her pallor. She did not rise, and would have kept this 
side of her face out of view, but Haworth came and took 
his seat before her. It would not have been easy for her 


248 


HAWORTH'S. 


to move or change her position — and he looked directly 
at the significant little bruise. His glance turned upon 
it again and again as he talked to her or her father ; if it 
wandered off it came back and rested there. During din- 
ner she felt that, place herself as she would, in a few 
seconds she would be conscious again that he had baffled 
her. For the first time in his experience, it was he who 
had the advantage. 

But when they returned to the parlor she held herself 
in check. She placed herself opposite to him and turned 
her face toward him, and let him look without flinching. 
It was as if suddenly she wished that he should see, and 
had a secret defiant reason for the wish. It seemed a 
long evening, but she did not lose an inch of ground after 
this. When he was going away she rose and stood before 
him. Her father had gone to the other end of the room, 
and was fussing unnecessarily over some memoranda. As 
they waited together, Haworth took his last look at the 
mark upon her temple. 

“ If it had been me you wore it for,” he said, “ I’d have 
had my hands on the throat of the chap that did it before 
now. It wasn't me, but I’ll find him and pay him for it 
yet, by George ! ” 

She had no time to answer him. Her father came to- 
ward them with the papers in his hands. Haworth lis- 
tened to his wordy explanation without moving a line of 
his face. He did not hear it, and Ffrench was dimly 
aware of the fact. 

About half an hour after, the door of the bar- parlor of 
the “ Who’d ha’ Thowt it” was flung open. 

“ Where’s Briarley ? ” a voice demanded. “ Send him 
out here. I want him — Haworth.” 


SETTLING AN ACCOUNT. 


249 


Mr. Briarley arose in even more than his usual trepida 
tion. lie looked from side to side, quaking. 

“ Wheer is he? ” he asked. 

Haworth stood on the threshold. 

“ Here,” he answered. “ Come out ! ” 

Mr. Briarley obeyed. At the door Haworth collared 
him and led him down the sanded passage and into the 
road outside. 

A few yards from the house there was a pump. He 
piloted him to it and set him against it, and began to 
swear at him fluently. 

“ You blasted scoundrel ! ” he said. “ You let it out, 
did you ? ” 

Mr. Briarley was covered with confusion as with a gar- 
ment. 

“ I’m a misforchnit chap as is alius i’ trouble,” he said. 
“ Theer’s summat i’ ivverythin’ I lay hond on as seems to 
go agen me. I dunnot see how it is. Happen theer’s 
summat i’ me a-bein’ a dom’d foo’, or happen it’s nowt 
but misforchin. Sararann ” 

Haworth stopped him by swearing again, something 
more sulphurously than before — so sulphurously, indeed, 
that Mr. Briarley listened with eyes distended and mouth 
agape. 

“ Let’s hear what you know about th’ thing,” Haworth 
ended. 

Mr. Briarley shut his mouth. He would have kept it 
shut if he had dared. 

“I dunnot know nowt,” he answered, with patient 
mendacity. “ I wur na wi’ em.” 

“ You know plenty,” said Haworth. “ Out with it, if 
you don’t want to get yourself into trouble. Who was the 

chap that threw the stone ? ” 

11 * 


250 


“ HAWORTH'S 


u I — I dunnot know.” 

“ If you don’t tell me,” said Haworth, through his 
clenched teeth, “ it’ll be worse for you. It was you I let 
the truth slip to ; you were the first chap that heard it, 
and you were the first chap that started the row and 
egged it on.” 

“ I did na egg it on,” protested Mr. Briarley. “ It did 
na need no eggin’ on. They pounced on it like cats on a 
bird. I did na mean to tell ’em owt about it. I’m a 
dom’d foo’. I’m th’ dom’dest foo’ fro here to Dillup.” 

“ Aye,” said Haworth, sardonically, “ that’s like enow. 
Who was the chap that threw the stone ? ” 

He returned to the charge so swiftly and with such fell 
determination that Mr. Briarley began fairly to whim- 
per. 

“ I dare na tell,” he said. “ They’d mak’ quick work 
o’ me if they fun me out.” 

“ Who was it ? ” persisted Haworth. “ They’ll make 
quicker work of you at the 6 Old Bailey,’ if you don’t.” 

Mr. Briarley turned his disreputable, battered cap round 
and round in his nervous hands. He was mortally afraid 
of Haworth. 

“ A man’s gotten to think o’ his family,” he argued. 
“ If he dunnot think o’ hissen, he mun think o’ his family. 
I’ve getten a mortal big un — twelve on ’em an’ Sararann, 
as ud be left on th’ world if owt wur to happen — twelve 
on ’em as ud be left wi’out no one to stand by ’em an’ per- 
vide fur ’em. Tlieer’s nowt a fam’ly misses so mich as th’ 
head. The head should na run no risks. It’s th’ head’s 
duty to tak’ care o’ hissen an’ keep o’ th’ safe soide.” 

“ Who threw the stone ? ” said Haworth. 

Mr. Briarley gave him one cowed glance and broke 
down. 


SETTLING AN ACCOUNT. 


251 


“ It wur Tummas Keddy,” he burst forth helplessly. 
“ Lord ha’ mercy on me ! ” 

“ Where is he ? ” 

“ He’s i’ theer,” jerking his cap toward the bar-room, 
“ an’ I’m i’ th’ worst mess I ivver wur i’ i’ my loife. I’m 
fettlit now, by th’ Lord Harry ! ” 

“ Which way does he go home ? ” 

“ Straight along the road here, if I mun get up to my 
neck — an’ — an’ be dom’d to him ! — if I may tak’ th’ lib- 
erty.” 

“ Settle yourself to stand here till he comes out, and 
then tell me which is him.” 

« Eh ! ” 

“ When he comes out say the word, and stay here till he 
does. I’ve got a bit o’ summat to settle with him.” 

“ Will ta — will ta promise tha will na let out who did 
it ? If tha does, th’ buryin’ club’ll ha’ brass to pay out 
afore a week’s over.” 

“ You’re safe enow,” Haworth answered, “ if you’ll keep 
your mouth shut. They’ll hear nowt from me.” 

A gleam of hope — a faint one — illumined Mr. Briarley’s 
countenance. 

“ I would na ha’ no objections to tha settlin’ wi’ him,” 
he said. “ I ha’ not nowt agen that. He’s a chap as I am 
na fond on, an’ he’s getten more cheek than belongs to 
him. I’d ha’ settled wi’ him mysen if I had na been a 
fam’ly man. Ha’in’ a fam’ly to think on howds a man 
back. Theer — I hear ’em cornin’ now. Would yo,’ ” in 
some hurry, “ ha’ owt agen me gettin’ behind th’ 
pump ? ” 

“ Get behind it,” answered Haworth, “ and be damned 
to you ! ” 

He got behind it with alacrity, and, as it was not a 


252 


HAWORTH'S: 


large pump, was driven by necessity to narrowing himself 
to its compass, as it were, and taking up very little room. 
Haworth himself drew back somewhat, and yet kept 
within hearing. 

Four or five men came out and went their different 
ways, and Mr. Briarley made no sign ; but as the sixth, a 
powerful, clumsy fellow, passed, he uttered a cautious 
“ Tlieer he is ! ” 

Haworth did not stir. It was a dark, cloudy night, and 
he was far enough from the road to be safe from dis- 
covery. The man went on at a leisurely pace. 

Mr. Briarley re-appeared, breathing shortly. 

“ I mun go whoam,” he said. “ Sararann ” and 

scarcely waiting for Haworth’s signal of dismissal, he de- 
parted as if he had been shot from a string-bow, and fled 
forth into the shadows. 

Mr. Reddy went at a leisurely pace, as has been before 
observed. He usually went at a leisurely pace when he 
was on his way home. He was a “ bad lot ” altogether, 
and his home was a squalid place, and his wife more fre- 
quently than not had a black eye or a bruised face, and 
was haggard with hunger and full of miserable plaints 
and reproaches. Consequently he did not approach the 
scenes of his domestic joys with any haste. 

He was in a worse humor than usual to-night from 
various causes, the chief one, perhaps, being that he had 
only had enough spirituous liquor to make him savage and 
to cause him to enliven his way with blasphemy. 

Suddenly, however, at the corner of a lane which 
crossed the road he paused. He heard behind him the 
sound of heavy feet nearing him with a quick tramp which 
somehow presented to his mind the idea of a purpose, and 


SETTLING AN ACCOUNT. 


253 


for some reason, not exactly clear to himself, he turned 
about and waited. 

“ Who’s that theer ? ” he asked. 

“ It’s me,” he was answered. “ Stand up and take thy 
thrashing my lad.” 

The next instant he was struggling in the darkness with 
an assailant, and the air was hot with oaths, and they were 
writhing together and panting, and striking blinding 
blows. Sometimes it was one man and then the other 
who was uppermost, but at last it was Haworth, and he 
had his man in his grasp. 

“ This is because you hit the wrong mark, my lad,” he 
said. “Because luck went agen you, and because it’s 
gone agen me.” 

When he had done Mr. Reddy lay beaten into seeming 
insensibility. He had sworn and gnashed his teeth and 
beaten back in vain. 

“ Who is it, by ? ” he panted. “ Who is it ? ” 

“ It’s Haworth,” he was answered. “ Jem Haworth, my 
lad.” 

And he was left there lying in the dark while Haworth 
walked away, his heavy breathing a living presence in 
the air until he was gone. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 


A SUMMER AFTERNOON. 

“ Let it stay there a while/’ Murdoch had said. “ I am 
not ready for it yet.” And it staid there between the 
head-stone and the old stone wall covered with the long 
grass and closed in by it. He was not ready for it — yet. 
The days were not long enough for him as it was. His 
mother and Christian rarely saw him, but at such times 
as they did each recognized in him a new look and under- 
stood it. He began to live a strange, excited life. 
Rachel Ffrench did nothing by halves. He was seen with 
her constantly. It continually happened that where she 
was invited he was invited also. He forgot that he 
dreaded to meet strangers and had always held aloof from 
crowds. There were no strangers now and no crowds ; in 
any gathering there was only one presence and this was 
enough for him. When people would have cultivated him 
and drawn him out, he did not see their efforts ; when 
men and women spoke to him they found that he scarcely 
heard them and that even as they talked he had uncon- 
sciously veered toward another point. He did things 
sometimes which made them stare at him. 

“ The fellow is like a ghost,” a man said of him once. 

The simile was not a bad one. He did not think of 
what he might be winning or losing — for the time being 


A SUMMER AFTERNOON. 


255 


mere existence was all-sufficient. At night he scarcely 
slept at all. Often he got up and rambled over the coun- 
try in the darkness, not knowing where he was going or 
why he walked. He went through the routine of the day 
in haste and impatience, doing more work than was neces- 
sary and frequently amazing those around him by losing 
his temper and missing his mark. Ffrench began to re- 
gard him with wonder. Divers things were a source of 
wonder to Ffrench, in these days. He understood Rachel 
less than ever and found her less satisfactory. He could 
not comprehend her motives. He had become accustomed 
to feeling that she always had a motive in the background, 
and he made the natural mistake of supposing that she 
had one now. But she had none. She had suddenly 
given way to a mysterious impulse which overmastered 
her and she let herself go, as it were. It did not matter 
to her that the time came when her course was discussed 
and marveled at ; upon the whole, she felt a secret pleasure 
in defying public comment as usual, and going steadily in 
her own path. 

She did strange things too. She began to go among the 
people who knew Murdoch best, — visiting the families of 
the men who worked under him, and leading them on 
to speak of him and his way of life. It cannot be said 
that the honest matrons she honored by her visits were 
very fond of her or exactly rejoiced when she appeared. 
They felt terribly out of place and awe-stricken when she 
sat down on their wooden chairs with her rich dress lying 
upon the pipe-clayed floors. Her beauty and her grandeur 
stunned them, however much they admired both. 

“I tell yo’ she’s a lady,” they said. “ She knows nowt 
about poor folk, bless yo’, but she’s getten brass to gie 
away — an’ she gies it wi’out makin’ a doment. I mun 


256 


“ HA WORTH'S” 


say it puts me out a bit to see her coom in, but she does 
na go out wi’out leavin’ summat.” 

She made no pretense of bringing sympathy and con- 
solation; she merely gave money, and money was an 
equivalent, and after all it was something of an event to 
have her carriage stop before the gate and to see her de- 
scend and enter in all her splendor. The general vague 
idea which prevailed was that she meant to be charitable 
after the manner of her order, — but that was a mistake 
too. 

It happened at last that one day her carriage drew up 
before the house at whose window Murdoch’s mother and 
Christian sat at work. 

It was Saturday, and Janey Briarley, in her “ cleanin’ 
up ” apparel opened the door for her. 

“ They’re in th’ parlor,” she answered in reply to her 
question. “ Art tha coom to see ’em \ ” 

When she was ushered into the parlor in question, Mrs. 
Murdoch rose with her work in her hand ; Christian rose 
also and stood in the shadow. They had never had a 
visitor before, and had not expected such a one as this. 

They thought at first that she had come upon some 
errand, but she had not. She gave no reason for her 
presence other than she would have given in making any 
call of ceremony. 

As she sat on the narrow sofa, she saw all the room and 
its meagerness, — its smallness, its scant, plain furnishing ; 
its ugly carpet and walls ; the straight, black dress of the 
older woman, the dark beauty of the girl who did not sit 
down but stood behind her chair, watching. This beauty 
was the only thing which relieved the monotony of the 
place, but it was the most grating thing she saw, to Rachel 
Ffrench. It roused within her a slow anger. She resented 


A SUMMER AFTERNOON. 


257 


it and felt that she would like to revenge herself upon it 
quietly. She had merely meant to try the effect of these 
people and their surroundings upon herself as a fine ex- 
periment, but the effect was stronger than she had antici- 
pated. When she went away Christian accompanied her 
to the door. 

In the narrow passage Rachel Ffrench turned and 
looked at her — giving her a glance from head to foot. 

“ I think I have seen you before,” she said. 

u You know you have seen me,” the girl answered. 

“ I have seen you on the Continent. Your apartment 
was opposite to ours in Paris — when you were with your 
mother. I used to watch the people go in and out. You 
are very like your mother.” 

And she left her, not looking back once,— as if there 
was no living creature behind, or as if she had forgotten 
that there was one. 

Christian went back to the room within. She sat down 
but did not take up her work again. 

u Do vou know why she came ? ” she asked. 

u Yes"” 

“ Why?” 

“ She came to look at us — to see what manner of people 
we were — to see how we lived — to measure the distance 
between our life and hers. As she went away,” she 
went on, “ she remembered that she had seen me before. 
She told me that I was very like my mother.” 

She leaned forward, her hands clasped palm to palm 
between her knees. 

“ There was a man who did my mother a great wrong 
once,” she said. “ They had loved each other in a mad 
sort of way for a long time, but in the end, I suppose, he 
got tired, for suddenly he went away. When he was 


258 


HA WORTH'S.' 


gone, my mother did not speak of him and it was as if 
he had never lived, but she grew haggard and dreadful 
and lost her beauty. I was a little child and she took me 
with her and began to travel from one place to another. 
I did not know why at first, but I found out afterward. 
She was following him. She found him in Paris, at last, 
after two years. One foggy night she took me to a nar- 
row street near one of the theaters, and after we got there 
1 knew she was waiting for some one, because she walked 
to and fro between two of the street lamps dragging me 
by the hand. She walked so for half an hour, and then 
the man came, not knowing we were there. She went to 
him, dragging me with her, and when she stood in front 
of him, threw back her veil and let the light shine upon 
her. She lifted her hand and struck him — struck him 
full upon the face, panting for breath. ‘ I am a woman,’ 
she said. 1 1 am a woman and I have struck you ! Re- 
member it to your last hour as I shall ! ’ I thought that 
he would strike her back, but he did not. His hands fell 
at his sides, and he stood before her pale and helpless. 
I think it was even more terrible than she had meant it 
to be ” 

Mrs. Murdoch stopped her, almost angrily. 

“ Why do you go back to it ? ” she demanded. “ Why 
should you think of such a story now ? ” 

“ It came to me,” she answered. “ I was thinking that 
it is true that I am like her, — I bear a grudge such a long 
time, and it will not die out. It is her blood which is 
strong in me. She spoke the truth.” 

Early in the afternoon Rachel Ffrench, sauntering 
about the garden in the sun, saw Murdoch coming down 
the road toward the house, — not until he had first seen 
her, however. His eyes were fixed upon her when she 


A SUMMER AFTERNOON. 


259 


turned, and it seemed as if he found it impossible to re- 
move them, even for a breath’s time. Since his glance 
had first caught the pale blue of her dress he had not 
once looked away from it. All the morning, in the midst 
of the smoke and din of the workrooms, he had been 
thinking of the hours to come. The rest of the day lay 
before him. The weather was dazzling; the heat of 
summer was in the air; the garden was ablaze with 
flowers whose brightness seemed never to have been there 
before ; there was here and there the drone of a bee, and 
now and again a stir of leaves. The day before had been 
of another color and so might the morrow be, but to-day 
left nothing to be believed in except its own sun and 
beauty. 

When at last he was quite near her, he seemed for a 
little while to see nothing but the faint pale blue of her 
dress. He never forgot it afterward, and never remembered 
it without a sense of summer heat and languor. He could 
not have told what he said to her, or if he at first spoke 
at all. Soon she began to move down the path and he 
followed her, — simply followed her, — stopping when she 
stopped to break a flower from its stem. 

It was as she bent forward once that she told him of 
what she had done. 

“ This morning,” she said, “ I went to see your 
mother.” 

“ She told me so,” he answered. 

She broke the stem of the flower and stood upright, 
holding it in her hand. 

You do not ask me why I went.” 

“ Why ? ” he asked. 

Their eyes met, and she was silent for a moment. 
Then she said, with perfect deliberateness : 


260 


HA WORTH'S: 


“ I have known nothing of the life you live. I wanted 
to see it for myself. I wanted — to bring it near.” 

He drew quite close to her, his face pale, his eyes 
burning. 

“Near!” he repeated. “To bring it near: Do you 
— do you know what you have said ? ” 

“ To bring it near,” she said again, with no less delib- 
erateness than before, but with a strange softness. 

J ust for to-day, she had told herself, she would try the 
sensation of being swept onward by the stream. But she 
weighed herself as she spoke, and weighed him and his 
passion, and her power against its force. 

But he came no closer to her. He did not attempt to 
touch even her hand or her dress. His own hands fell 
helplessly at his sides, and he stood still before her. 

“ Oh, God ! ” he said in a hushed voice, “ How happy 
lam!” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 


U GOD BLESS YOU ! ” 

Late the same night, Mrs. Haworth, who had been 
watching for her son alone in the grand, desolate room in 
which it was her lot to sit, rose to her feet on hearing him 
enter the house. 

The first object which met his eye when he came in was 
her little figure and her patient face turned toward the 
door. As he crossed the threshold, she took a few steps 
as if to meet him, and then stopped. 

“ Jem ! ” she exclaimed. “ Jem ! ” 

Her voice was tremulous and her eyes bright with the 
indefinable feeling which seized upon her the moment she 
saw his face. Her utterance of his name was a cry of 
anxiousness and fear. 

u What ! ” he said. “ Are you here yet ? ” 

He came to her and laid a hand upon her shoulder in a 
rough caress. 

“ You’d better go to bed,” he said to her. u It’s late, 
and I’ve got work to do.” 

u I felt,” she answered, a as if I’d like to wait an’ see 
you. I knowed I should sleep better for it — I always 
do.” 

There was a moment’s pause in which she stroked his 
sleeve with her withered hand. Then he spoke. 


262 


“ HAWORTH' 8. 


“Sleep better!” he said. “That’s a queer notion. 
You’ve got queer fancies, you women — some on you.” 

Then he stooped and kissed her awkwardly. He always 
did it with more or less awkwardness and lack of ease, 
but it never failed to make her happy. 

“ Now you’ve done it,” he said. “ You’d better go, old 
lady, and leave me to finish what I’ve got to do.” 

“It’s late for work, Jem,” she answered. “You 
oughtn’t to try yourself so much.” 

“ It ain’t work so much,” he said, “ as thinking. There’s 
summat I’ve got to think out.” 

For the moment he seemed quite to forget her. He 
stood with his hands thrust into his pockets and his feet 
apart, staring at the carpet. He did not stir when she 
moved away, and was still standing so when she turned at 
the door to look at him. 

What she saw brought her back, hurried and tearful. 

“ Let me stay ! ” she cried. “ Let me stay. There’s 
trouble in your face, Jem, for I see it. Don’t keep it 
from me — for the sake of what we’ve been through to- 
gether in times that’s past.” 

He bestirred himself and looked up at her. 

“ Trouble ! ” he repeated. “ That’s not the word. It’s 
not trouble, old lady, and it’s naught that can be helped. 
There’s me and it to fight it out. Go and get your sleep 
and leave us to it.” 

She went slowly and sadly. She always obeyed him, 
whatever his wish might be. 

When the last sound of her faltering feet had died away 
upon the stairs, he went to the side-board and poured out 
a glass of raw brandy and drank it. 

“ I want summat to steady me,” he said, — “ and to warm 


“ GOD BLESS YOU! 


263 


But it did not steady him, at least. When he sat down 
at the table, the hand he laid upon it shook. 

He looked at it curiously, clinching and unclinching it. 

“ I’m pretty well done for when it goes like that,” he 
said. u I’m farther gone than I thought. It’s all over me 
— over and through me. I’m shaking like a fool.” 

He broke out with a torrent of curses. 

“ Is it me that’s sitting here,” he cried, “ or some other 
chap ? Is it me that luck’s gone agen on every side or a 
chap that’s useder to it ? ” 

Among all his pangs of humiliation and baffled passion 
there was not one so subtle and terrible in its influence 
upon him as his momentary sense of physical weakness. 
He understood it less than all the rest, and raged against 
it more. His body had never failed him once, and now 
for the first time he felt that its power faltered. He was 
faint and cold, and trembled not merely from excitement 
hut from loss of strength. 

Opposite to him, at the other side of the room, was a 
full-length mirror. Accidentally raising his eyes toward it 
he caught sight of his own face. He started back and un- 
consciously glanced behind him. 

“ Who ! ” he began. 

And then he stopped, knowing the face for his own — 
white-lipped, damp with cold sweat, lined with harsh fur- 
rows — evil to see. He got up, shaking his fist at it, cry- 
ing out through his shut teeth. 

“ Blast her ! ” he said. “ Who’s to blame but her ? ” 

He had given up all for her, his ambition, which had 
swept all before it, his greatest strength, his very sins and 
coarseness, and half an hour ago he had passed the open 
door of a room and had seen Murdoch standing motionless, 
not uttering a word, but with his face fairly transfigured 


264 


“ HA WORTH'S. 


by his ecstasy, and with her hand crushed against his 
breast. 

He had gone in to see Ffrench, and had remained with 
him for an hour in one of the parlors, knowing that the 
two were alone in the other. He had heard their voices 
now and then, and had known that once they went upon 
the terrace and talked there. He had grown burning hot 
and deadly cold, and strained his ears for every sound, but 
never caught more than a word or low laugh coming from 
Rachel Ffrench. At last he had left his partner, and on 
his way out passed the open door. They had come back 
to the room, and Murdoch was saying his good-night. He 
held Rachel Ffrench’s hand, and she made no effort to 
withdraw it, but gave it to his caress. She did not move 
nor speak, but her eyes rested upon his rapt face with an 
expression not easy to understand. Haworth did not un- 
derstand it, but the rage which seized and shook him was 
the most brutal emotion he had ever felt in his life. It 
was a madness which left him weak. He staggered down 
the stairs and out into the night blindly, blaspheming as 
he went. He did not know how he reached home. The 
sight his mother had seen, and which had drawn a cry 
from her and checked her midway in the room had been 
cause enough for tremor in her. Nothing but the most 
violent effort had saved him from an outbreak in her pres- 
ence. He was weaker for the struggle when she was 
gone. 

He could think of nothing but of Rachel Ffrench’s un- 
translatable face and of Murdoch’s close clasp of her sur- 
rendered hand. 

“ What has she ever give me ? ” he cried. “ Me , that’s 
played the fool for her ! What’s he done that he should 
stand there and fondle her as if he’d bought and paid for 


“ GOD BLESS YOU! 


265 


her ? I’m the chap that paid for her! She’s mine, body 
and soul, by George, if every man had his rights ! ” 

And then, remembering all that had gone by, he turned 
from hot to cold again. 

“ I’ve stood up agen her a long time,” he said, “ and 
what have I got ? 1 swore I’d make my way with her, 

and how far have I gone ? She’s never give me a word, 
by George, or a look that ’d be what another woman would 
have give. She’s not even played with me — most on ’em 
would have done that — but she’s not. She’s gone on her 
way and let me go on mine. She’s turned neither right 
nor left for me — I wasn’t man enough.” 

He wore himself out in the end and went to the brandy 
again, and drank of it deeply. It sent him upstairs with 
heated blood and feverish brain. It was after midnight 
when he went to his room, but not to sleep. He lay upon 
his pillow in the darkness thinking of the things he had 
done in the past few months, and of the fruit the first seed 
he had sown might bring forth. 

“ There’s things that may happen to any on us, my lad,” 
he said, “ and some on ’em might happen to you. If it’s 
Jem Haworth that’s to lose, the other sha’n’t gain, by 
George ! ” 

He had put the light out and lay in the darkness, and 
was so lying with this mood at work upon him when 
there came a timid summons on the door, and it opened 
and some one came in softly. 

He knew who it was, even before she spoke. 

“ Jem,” she said, “ Jem, you’re not asleep, my dear.” 

“No,” he answered. 

She came to the bed-side and stood there. 

“ I — I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “ Something’s a little 
wrong with me. I’m gettin’ foolish, an’ — an’ fearful. I 
13 


266 


“HAWORTH'S: 


felt as if you wasn’t quite safe. I thought I’d come and 
speak to you.” 

“ You’re out o’ sorts,” he answered. “ You’ll have to 
be looked after.” 

“ It’s nothing but my foolish way,” she replied. 
“You’re very good to me — an’ me so full of fancies. 
Would you — would you mind me a-kneelin’ down an’ 
sayin’ a prayer here to myself as I used to when you 
was a boy, Jem ? I think it ’d do me good. Would you 
mind it ? ” 

“ No,” he answered hoarsely. “ Kneel down.” 

And she knelt and grasped for his hand and held it, 
and he heard her whispering in the dark as he had been 
wont to hear her nearly thirty years before. 

And when it was over, she got up and kissed him on the 
forehead. 

“ God bless you, my dear ! ” she said. “ God bless 
you ! ” and went away. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

“it is done with.” 

After the departure of Haworth and Murdoch, Mr. 
Ffrench waited for some time for his daughter’s appear- 
ance. He picked up a pamphlet and turned over its 
leaves uneasily, trying to read here and there, and making 
no great success of the effort. He was in a disturbed and 
nervous mood, the evening had been a trial to him, more 
especially the latter part of it during which Haworth sat 
on the other side of the table in his usual awkwardly free 
and easy posture, his hands in his pockets, his feet thrust 
out before him. His silence and the expression he wore 
had not been of a kind to relieve his companion of any 
tithe of the burden which had gradually accumulated 
upon his not too muscular shoulders. At the outset 
Ffrench had been simply bewildered, then somewhat 
anxious and annoyed, but to-day he had been stunned. 
Haworth’s departure was an immense relief to him. It 
was often a relief to him in these days. Then he heard 
Murdoch descend the stairs and leave the house, and he 
waited with mingled dread and anxiousness for Rachel’s 
coming. But she did not make her appearance. He 
heard her walk across the room after Murdoch left her, 
and then she did not seem to move again. 

After the lapse of half an hour he laid his pamphlet 
aside and rose himself. He coughed two or three times 


268 


“ HA WORTH'S. 


and paced the floor a little — gradually he edged toward 
the folding doors leading into the front room and passed 
through them. 

Rachel stood at one of the windows, which was thrown 
open. She was leaning against its side and looking out 
into the night. When she turned toward him something 
in her manner caused in Ffrench an increase of nervous- 
ness amounting to irritation. 

“You wish to say something to me,” she remarked. 
“ What is it ? ” 

“ Yes,” he answered. “ I wish to say something to 
you.” 

He could not make up his mind to say it for a moment 
or so. He found himself returning her undisturbed glance 
with an excited and bewildered one. 

“I — the fact is” — he broke forth, desperately, “I — I 
do not understand you.” 

“ That is not at all singular,” she replied. “ You have 
often said so before.” 

He began to lose his temper and to walk about the 
room. 

“ You have often chosen to seem incomprehensible,” he 
said, “ but this is the most extraordinary thing you have 
done yet. You — you must know that it looks very bad — 
that people are discussing you openly — you of all women ! ” 

Suddenly he wheeled about and stopped, staring at her 
with more uncertainty and bewilderment than ever. 

“ I ought to know you better,” he said, “ I do know you 
better than to think you capable of any weakness of — of 
that kind. You are not capable of it. You are too proud 
and too fond of yourself, and yet ” 

“ And yet what \ ” she demanded, in a peculiar, low 
voice. 


“ IT IS DONE WITH: 


269 


He faltered visibly. 

“ And yet you are permitting yourself to — to be talked 
over and — misunderstood.” 

“ Do you think,” she asked, in the same voice, “ that I 
care for being ‘ talked over ? ’ ” 

“ You would care if you knew what is said,” he re- 
sponded. “ You do not know.” 

“ I can guess,” she replied, “easily.” 

But she was deadly pale and he saw it, and her humilia- 
tion was that she knew he saw it. 

“ What you do,” he continued, “ is of more consequence 
than what most women do. You are not popular. You 
have held yourself very high and have set people at de- 
fiance. If you should be guilty of a romantic folly, it 
would go harder with you than with others.” 

“ I know that,” she answered him, “ far better than you 
do.” 

She held herself quite erect and kept her eyes steadily 
upon him. 

“ What is the romantic folly ? ” she put it to him. 

He could not have put it into words just then if his 
life had depended upon his power to do it. 

“ You will not commit it,” he said. “ It is not in you 
to do it, but yon have put yourself in a false position, 
and it is very unpleasant for both of us.” 

She stopped him. 

“ You are very much afraid of speaking plainly,” she 
said. “ Be more definite.” 

He flushed to the roots of his hair in his confusion and 
uneasiness. There was no way out of the difficulty. 

“ You have adopted such a manner with the world gen- 
erally,” he floundered, “ that a concession from you means 
a great deal. You — you have been making extraordinary 


270 


HA WORTH'S.' 


concessions. It is easy to see that this young fellow is 
madly enamored of you. He does not know how to con- 
ceal it, and he does not try. You have not seemed to de- 
mand that he should. You have let him follow you, and 
come and go as his passion and simplicity prompted him. 
One might say you had encouraged him — though encour- 
aged seems hardly the word to use.” 

“ No,” she interrupted, “ it is not the word to use.” 

“ He has made himself conspicuous and you too, and 
you have never protested by word or deed. When he 
was in danger you actually risked your life for him.” 

“ Great heaven ! ” she ejaculated. 

The truth of what he said came upon her like a flash. 
Until this moment she had only seen the night from one 
stand-point, and to see it from this one was a deadly blow 
to her. She lost her balance. 

“ How dare you ? ” she cried breathlessly. “ I was 
mad with excitement. If I had stopped to think ” 

“ You usually do stop to think,” he put in. “ That 
was why I was amazed. You did a thing without cal- 
culating its significance. You never did so before in 
your life. You know that it is true. You pride yourself 
upon it.” 

He could have said nothing so bitter and terrible. For 
the moment they had changed places. It was he who 
had presented a weakness to her. She did pride herself 
upon her cool power of calculation. 

“ Go on ! ” she exclaimed. 

“ He has been here half the day,” he proceeded, grow- 
ing bolder. “ You were out in the garden together all 
the afternoon — he has only just left you. When you con- 
trast his position with yours is not that an extraordinary 
thing ? What should you say if another woman had gone 


“IT IS DONE WITH. 


271 


so far ? Two years ago, lie was Haworth’s engineer. He 
is a wonderful fellow and a genius, and the world will 
hear of him yet. 1 should never think of anything but 
that if I were the only individual concerned, but you — 
you treated him badly enough at first.” 

She turned paler and paler. 

“ You think that I— that I ” 

She had meant to daunt him with the most daring 
speech she could make, but it would not complete itself. 
She faltered and broke down. 

“ I don’t know what to think,” he answered desperately. 
>l( It seems impossible. Good heavens ! it is impossible ! 
— you — it is not in your nature.” 

“ Ho,” she said, “ it is not.” 

Even in that brief space she had recovered herself 
wholly. She met his glance just as she had met it be- 
fore, even with more perfect sang f void. 

“ I will tell you what to think,” she went on. “ I have 
been very dull here. I wished from the first that I had 
never come. I hate the people, and I despise them more 
than I hate them. I must be amused and interested, and 
they are less than nothing. The person you speak of was 
different. I suppose what you say of him is true and he 
is a genius. I care nothing for that in itself, but he has 
managed to interest me. At first I thought him only 
absurd ; he was of a low class and a common workman, 
and he was so simple and ignorant of the world that he 
did not feel his position or did not care. That amused 
me and I led him on to revealing himself. Then I found 
out that there was a difference between him and the rest 
of his class, and I began to study him. I have no senti- 
mental notions about his honor and good qualities. Those 
things do not affect me, but I have been interested and 


272 


“ HA WORTH'S: 


the time has passed more easily. Now the matter will 
end just as it began, — not because T am tired of him or 
because I care for what people say, but because I think it 
is time, — and I choose that it should. It is done with 
from to-night.” 

“ Good heaven ! ” he cried. “ You are not going to drop 
the poor fellow like that ? ” 

“ You may call it what you please,” she returned. “ I 
have gone as far as I choose to go, and it is done with from 
to-night.” 

Mr. Ffrench’s excitement became something painful to 
see. Between his embarrassment as a weak nature before 
a strong one, — an embarrassment which was founded upon 
secret fear of unpleasant results, — between this and the 
natural compunctions arising from tendencies toward a 
certain refined and amiable sense of fairness, he well-nigh 
lost all control over himself and became courageous. He 
grew heated and flushed and burst forth into protest. 

“ My dear,” he said, “ I must say it’s a — a deuced un- 
gentlemanly business ! ” 

Her lack of response absolutely inspired him. 

“ It’s a deuced ill-bred business,” he added, “ from first 
to last.” 

She did not reply even to that, so he went on, growing 
warmer and warmer. 

“ You have taunted me with being afraid of you,” he 
said, “ though you have never put it into so many words. 
Perhaps I have been afraid of you. You can make your- 
self confoundedly unpleasant at times, — and I may have 
shrunk from saying what would rouse you, — but I must 
speak my mind about this, and say it is a deucedly cruel 
and unfair thing, and is unworthy of you. A less well- 
bred woman might have done it.” 


“IT IS DONE WITH. 


273 


A little color rose to her cheek and remained there, but 
she did not answer still. 

“He is an innocent fellow,” he proceeded, “an un- 
worldly fellow ; he has lived in his books and his work, 
and he knows nothing of women. His passion for you is 
a pure, romantic one ; he would lay his world at your feet. 
Call it folly, if you will, — it is folly, — but allow me to tell 
you it is worthy of a better object.” 

He was so astonished at his own daring that he stopped 
to see what effect it had produced. 

She replied by asking a simple but utterly confounding 
question. 

“ What,” she said, “ would you wish me to do % ” 

“ What would I wish you to do ? ” he stammered. 
“ What ? I — I hardly know.” 

And after regarding her helplessly a little longer, he 
turned about and left the room. 


12 * 


CHAPTER XL. 


“look out!” 

The next morning Ffrench rather surprised Murdoch 
by walking into his cell with the evident intention of pay- 
ing him a somewhat prolonged visit. It was not, however, 
the fact of his appearing there which was unusual enough 
to excite wonder, but a certain degree of mingled con- 
straint and effusiveness in his manner. It was as if he 
was troubled with some mental compunctions which he 
was desirous of setting at rest. At times he talked very 
fast and in a comparatively light and jocular vein, and 
again he was silent for some minutes, invariably rousing 
himself from his abstraction with a sudden effort. Sev- 
eral times Murdoch found that he was regarding him with 
a disturbed air of anxiety. 

Before going away he made an erratic and indecisive 
tour of the little room, glancing at drawings and picking 
up first one thing and then another. 

“ You have a good many things here,” he said, “ of one 
kind and another.” 

“ Yes,” Murdoch answered, absently. 

Ffrench glanced around at the jumble of mechanical 
odds and ends, the plans and models in various stages of 
neglect or completion. 

“ It’s a queer place,” he commented, “ and it has an air 


“ LOOK OUT!” 275 

of significance. It’s crammed with ideas — of one kind 
and another.” 

u Yes,” Murdoch answered, as before. 

Ffrench approached him and laid his hand weakly on 
his shoulder. 

“ You are a fellow of ideas,” he said, “ and you have a 
good deal before you. Whatever disappointments you 
might meet with, you would always have a great deal be- 
fore you. You have ideas. I,” with apparent inconse- 
quence, “ I haven’t, you know.” 

Murdoch looked somewhat puzzled, but he did not con- 
tradict him, so he repeated his statement. 

“ I haven’t, you know. I wish I had.” 

Then he dropped his hand and looked indefinite again. 

“ I should like you to always remember that I am your 
friend,” he said. “ I wish I could have been of more ser- 
vice to you. You are a fine fellow, Murdoch. I have 
admired you — I have liked you. Don’t forget it.” 

And he went away carrying the burden of his inde- 
cision and embarrassment and good intention with much 
amiable awkwardness. 

That day Murdoch did not see Rachel Ffrench. Cir- 
cumstances occurred which kept him at work until a late 
hour. The next day it was the same story, and the next 
also. A series of incidents seemed to combine against 
him, and the end of each day found him worn out and 
fretted. But on the fourth he was free again, and early 
in the evening found himself within sight of the iron 
gates. Every pulse in his body throbbed as he passed 
through them. lie was full of intense expectation. He 
could scarcely bear to think of what was before him. His 
desperate happiness was a kind of pain. One of his chief 
longings was that he might find her wearing the pale blue 


276 


HAWORTH' 8. 


dress again and that when he entered she might be stand- 
ing in the centre of the room as he had left her. Then it 
would seem as if there had been no nights and days be- 
tween the last terribly happy moment and this. The 
thought which flashed across his mind that there might 
possibly be some one else in the room was a shock to 
him. 

“ If she is not alone,” he said to himself, “ it will be un- 
bearable.” 

As he passed up the walk, he came upon a tall white 
lily blooming on one of the border beds. He was in a 
sufficiently mystical and emotional mood to be stopped by 
it. 

“ It is like her,” he said. And he gathered it and took 
it with him to the house. 

The first thing upon which his eye rested when he 
stood upon the threshold of the room was the pale blue 
color, and she was standing just as he had left her, it 
seemed to him upon the very same spot upon which they 
had parted. Ilis wish had been realized so far at least. 

He was obliged to pause a moment to regain his self- 
control. It was an actual truth that he could not have 
trusted himself so far as to go in at once. 

It was best that he did not. The next instant she 
turned and spoke to a third person at the other side of 
the room, and even as she did so caught sight of him and 
stopped. 

“ Here is Mr. Murdoch,” she said, and paused, waiting 
for him to come forward. She did not advance to meet 
him, did not stir until he was scarcely more than a pace 
from her. She simply waited, watching him as he moved 
toward her, as if she were a little curious to see what he 


“LOOK OUT! 


277 


would do. Then she gave him her hand, and he took it 
with a feeling that something unnatural had happened, 
or that he was suddenly awakening from a delusion. 

He did not even speak. It was she who spoke, turning 
toward the person whom she had addressed before he en- 
tered. 

“ You have heard us speak of Mr. Murdoch,” she said ; 
and then to himself, “ This is M. Saint Meran.” 

M. Saint Meran rose and bowed profoundly. He pre- 
sented, as his best points, long, graceful limbs and a pair 
of clear gray eyes, which seemed to hold their opinions in 
check. He regarded Murdoch with an expression of 
suave interest and made a well-bred speech of greet- 
ing. 

Murdoch said nothing. He could think of nothing to 
say. He was never very ready of speech. He bowed 
with an uncertain air, and almost immediately wandered 
off to the other end of the room, holding his lily in his 
hand. He began to turn over the pages of a book of en- 
gravings, seeing none of them. After a little while a 
peculiar perfume close to him attracted his attention, and 
he looked downward vacantly and saw the lily. Then he 
laid it down and moved farther away. 

Afterward — he did not know how long afterward — 
Ffrench came in. He seemed in a very feverish state of 
mind, talking a great deal and rather inanely, and forcing 
Murdoch to reply and join in the conversation. 

M. Saint Meran held himself with a graceful air of 
security and self-poise, and made gentle efforts at scien- 
tific remark which should also have an interest for genius 
of a mechanical and inventive turn. But Murdoch’s re- 
plies were vague. His glance followed Rachel Ffrench. 
He devoured her with his eyes — a violence which she 


278 


“HAWORTH'S.' 


bore very well. At last — he had not been in the house 
an hour — he left his chair and went to her. 

“ I am going away,” he said in an undertone. “ Good- 
night ! ” 

She did not seem to hear him. She was speaking to 
Saint Meran. 

“ Good night ! ” he repeated, in the same tone, not 
raising it at all, only giving it an intense, concentrated 
sound. 

She turned her face toward him. 

“ Good-night ! ” she answered. 

And he went away, Ffrench following him to the door 
with erratic and profuse regrets, which he did not hear at 
all. 

When he got outside, he struck out across the country. 
The strength with which he held himself in check was a 
wonder to him. It seemed as if he was not thinking at 
all — that he did not allow himself to think. He walked 
fast, it might even be said, violently ; the exertion made 
his head throb and his blood rush through his veins. He 
walked until at last his heart beat so suffocatingly that he 
was forced to stop. He threw himself down — almost fell 
down upon the grass at the wayside and lay with shut 
eyes. He was giddy and exhausted, and panted for 
breath. He could not have thought then, if he would ; 
he had gained so much at least. He did not leave the 
place for an hour. When he did so, it was to walk home 
by another route, slowly, almost weakly. This route led 
him by the Briarley cottage, and, as he neared it, he was 
seized with a fancy for going in. The door was ajar and 
a light burned in the living-room, and this drew him to- 
ward it. 

Upon the table stood a basket filled with purchases, and 



SHE TURNED HER FACE TOWARD HIM 


“GOOD-NIGHT,” SHE ANSWERED 










“ LOOK OUT! 


279 


near the basket lay a shawl which Janey wore upon all 
occasions requiring a toilet. She had just come in from 
her shopping, and sat on a stool in her usual posture, not 
having yet removed the large bonnet which spread its 
brim around her small face, a respectable and steady-go- 
ing aureole enlivened with bunches of flowers which in 
their better days had rejoiced Mrs. Briarley’s heart with 
exceeding great joy. 

She looked up as he came in, but she did not rise. 

“ Eh ! it’s thee, is it ? ” she remarked. “ I thowt it wur 
toime tha wur cornin’. Tha’st not been here fur nigh a 
month.” 

“ I have been — doing a great deal.” 

“ Aye,” she answered. “ I suppose so.” 

She jerked her thumb toward Granny Dixon’s basket 
chair, which stood empty. 

“ She’s takken down,” she said. “ She wur takken 
down a week sin’, an’ a noice toime we’re ha’in’ nursin’ 
her. None on us can do anything wi’ her but mother — 
she can settle her, thank th’ Amoighty.” 

She rested her sharp little elbows upon her knees and 
her chin upon both palms and surveyed him with in- 
terest. 

“ Has tha seed him % ” she demanded suddenly. 

“ Who ? ” he asked. 

“ Him,” with a nod of her head. “ Th’ furriner as is 
stayin’ at Mester Ffrench’s. Yo’ mun ha’ seen him. 
He’s been theer three days.” 

“ I saw him this evening.” 

“ I thowt tha mun ha’ seed him. He coom o’ Monday. 
He coom fro’ France. I should na,” with a tone of 
serious speculation, — “ I should na ha’ thowt she’d ha’ 
had a Frenchman.” 


280 


“ HA WORTH'S." 


She moved her feet and settled herself more conve- 
niently without moving her eyes from his face. 

“ I dunnot think much o’ Frenchmen mysen,” she pro- 
ceeded. “ An’ neyther does mother, but they say as this 
is a rich un an’ a grand un. She’s lived i’ France a good 
bit, an’ happen she does na’ moind their ways. She’s 
knowed him afore.” 

“ When ? ” he asked. 

“ When she wur theer. She lived theer, yo’ know.” 

Yes, he remembered, she had lived there. He said 
nothing more, only sat watching the little stunted figure 
and sharp small face with a sense of mild fascination, 
wondering dully how much she knew and where she had 
learned it all, and what she would say next. But she 
gave him no further information — chiefly because she had 
no more on hand, there being a limit even to her sagacity. 
She became suddenly interested in himself. 

u Yo’re as pale as if yo’d had th’ whoopin’-cough,” she 
remarked. “ What’s wrong wi’ yo’ ? ” 

“I am tired,” he answered. “ Worn out.” 

That was true enough, but it did not satisfy her. Her 
matter of fact and matronly mind arrived at a direct so- 
lution of the question. 

“ Did yo’ ivver think,” she put it to him, “ as she’d ha’ 
yo’?” 

He had no answer to give her. He began to turn 
deathly white about the lips. She surveyed him with in- 
creased interest and proceeded : 

“ Mother an’ me’s talked it over,” she said. “ We tak’ 
th’ c Ha’penny Reader,’ an’ theer wur a tale in it as towd 
o’ one o’ th’ nobility as wed a workin’ chap — an’ mother 
she said as happen she wur loike her an’ ud do it, but I 
said she would na. Th’ chap i’ th’ tale turnt out to be a 


“ LOOK OUT! 


281 


earl, as ud been kidnapped by th’ gypsies, but yo’ nivver 
war kidnapt, an’ she’s noan o’ th’ soft koind. Th’ Lady 
Geraldine wur a difrient mak’. Theer wur na mieh i’ her 
to my moind. She wur alius makkin’ out as brass wur nowt, 
an’ talkin’ about ‘ humble virchew ’ as if theer wur nowt 
loike it. Yo’ would na ketch her talkin’ i’ that road. 
Mother she’d sit an’ cry until th’ babby’s bishop wur wet 
through, but I nivver seed nowt to cry about mysen. 
She getten th’ chap i’ th’ eend, an’ he turnt out to be a 
earl after aw. But I towd mother as marryin’ a workin’ 
man wur na i’ her loine.” 

Murdoch burst into a harsh laugh and got up. 

“ I’ve been pretty well talked over, it seems,” he said. 
“ I didn’t know that before.” 

“ Aye,” replied Janey, coolly. “ We’ve talked yo’ ower 
a good bit. Are yo’ goin’ ? ” 

“ Yes,” he answered, “ I am going.” 

He went out with an uncertain movement, leaving the 
door open behind him. As he descended the steps, the 
light from the room, slanting out into the darkness, struck 
athwart a face, the body pertaining to which seemed to 
be leaning against the palings, grasping them with both 
hands. It was the face of Mr. Briarley, who regarded 
him with a mingled expression of anxiety and desire to 
propitiate. 

“ Is it yo’ ? ” he whispered, as Murdoch neared him. 

“ Yes,” he was answered, somewhat shortly. 

Mr. Briarley put out a hand and plucked him by the 
sleeve. 

u I’ve been waitin’ fur yo’,” he said in a sonorous whis^ 
per which only failed to penetrate the innermost recesses 
of the dwelling through some miracle. 

Murdoch turned out of the gate. 


282 


“HAWORTH'S: 


“ Why ? ” he asked. 

Mr. Briarley glanced toward the house uneasily, and 
also up and down the road. 

“ Le’s get out o’ th’ way a bit,” he remarked. 

Murdoch walked on, and he shuffled a few paces behind 
him. When they got well into the shadow of the hedge, 
he stopped. Suddenly he dropped upon his knees and 
crawling through a very small gap into the field behind, 
remained there for a few seconds ; then he re-appeared 
panting. 

“ Theer’s no one theer,” he said. “ I would na ha’ 
risked theer bein’ one on ’em lyin’ under th’ hedge.” 

“ One of whom ? ” Murdoch inquired. 

“ I did na say who,” he answered. 

When he stood on his feet again, he took his companion 
by the button. 

“ Theer’s a friend o’ moine,” he said, “ as ha’ sent a 
messidge to yo’. This here’s it — ‘ Look out ! ’ ” 

“ What does it mean ? ” Murdoch asked. “ Speak more 
plainly.” 

Mr. Briarley became evidently disturbed. 

“Nay,” he said, “that theer’s plain enow fur me. It 
ud do my business i’ quick toime if I ” 

He stopped and glanced about him again, and then, 
without warning, threw himself, so to speak, on Murdoch’s 
shoulder and began to pour a flood of whispers into his 
ear. 

“ Theer wur a chap as were a foo’,” he said, “ an’ he 
was drawed into bein’ a bigger foo’ than common. It 
wur him as getten yo’ i’ trouble wi’ th’ stroikers. He did 
na mean no ill, an’ — an’ he ses, ‘ I’ll tell him to look out. 
I’ll run th’ risk.’ He knowed what wur goin’ on, an’ he 
ses, ‘ I’ll tell him to look out.’ ” 


“ LOOK OUT ! 


283 


u Who was he ? ” Murdoch interposed. 

Mr. Briarley fell back a pace, perspiring profusely, 
and dabbing at his forehead with his cap. 

“ He — he wur a friend o’ moine,” he stammered, — “ a 
friend o’ moine as has getten a way o’ gettin’ hissen i’ 
trouble, an’ he ses, ‘ I’ll tell him to look out.’ ” 

“ Tell him from me,” said Murdoch, “ that I am not 
afraid of anything that may happen.” 

It was a rash speech, but was not so defiant as it sounded. 
His only feeling was one of cold carelessness. He wanted 
to get free and go away and end his night in his silent 
room at home. But Mr. Briarley kept up with him, edg- 
ing toward him apologetically as he walked. 

“ Yo’re set agen th’ chap fur bein’ a foo’,” he persisted, 
breathlessly, u an’ I dunnot blame yo’. He’s set agen 
hissen. He’s a misforchnit chap as is alius i’ trouble. 
It’s set heavy on him, an’ ses he, ‘ I’ll tell him to look 
out.’ ” 

At a turn into a by-lane he stopped. 

“ I’ll go this road,” he said, “ an’ I’ll tell him as I’ve 
done it.” 


CHAPTER XLI. 


“it has all been a lie.” 

In a week’s time Saint Meran had become a distinct 
element in the social atmosphere of Broxton and vicinity. 
He fell into his place at Rachel Ffrench’s side with the 
naturalness of a man who felt he had some claim upon 
his position. He was her father’s guest ; they had seen a 
great deal of each other abroad. Any woman might 
have felt his well-bred homage a delicate compliment. 
He was received as an agreeable addition to society ; he 
attended her upon all occasions. From the window of 
his work-room Murdoch saw him drive by with her in her 
carriage, saw him drop into the bank for a friendly chat 
with Ffrench, who regarded him with a mixture of ner- 
vousness and admiration. 

Haworth, having gone away again, had not heard of 
him. Of late the Works had seen little of its master. 
He made journeys hither and hither, and on his return 
from such journeys invariably kept the place in hot 
water. He drove the work on and tyrannized over the 
hands from foremen to p tiddlers. At such times there 
was mysterious and covert rebellion and some sharp 
guessing as to what was going on, but it generally ended 
in this. Upon the whole the men were used to being 
bullied, and some of them worked the better for it. 

Murdoch went about his work as usual, though there 


“IT HAS ALL BEEN A LIE . 


285 


was not a decent man on the place who did not gradually 
awaken to the fact that some singular change was at work 
upon him. He concentrated all his mental powers upon 
what he had to do during work hours, and so held himself 
in check, but he spent all his leisure in a kind of apathy, 
sitting in his cell at his work-table in his old posture, his 
forehead supported by his hands, his fingers locked in his 
tumbled hair. Sometimes he was seized with fits of ner- 
vous trembling which left him weak. When he left 
home in the morning he did not return until night and he 
ate no midday meal. 

As yet he was only drifting here and there ; he had 
arrived at no conclusions ; he did not believe in his own 
reasoning; the first blow had simply stunned him. A 
man who had been less reserved and who had begun upon 
a fair foundation of common knowledge would have 
understood ; he understood nothing but his passion, his 
past rapture, and that a mysterious shock had fallen upon 
him. 

He lived in this way for more than a week, and then 
he roused himself to make a struggle. One bright, sunny 
day, after sitting dumbly for half an hour or so, he stag- 
gered to his feet and took up his hat. 

“ I’ll — try — again,” he said, mechanically. “ I’ll try 
again. I don’t know what it means. It may have been 
my fault. I don’t think it was — but it may have been. 
Perhaps I expected too much.” And he went out. 

After he had been absent some minutes, Ffrench came 
in from the bank. He had been having a hard morning 
of it. The few apparently unimportant indiscretions in 
the way of private speculation of which he had been 
guilty were beginning to present themselves in divers 
unpleasant forms, and to assume an air of importance he 


286 


“ HAWORTH'S 


had not believed possible. His best ventures had failed 
, him, and things which he was extremely anxious to keep 
from Haworth’s ears were assuming a shape which would 
render it difficult to manage them privately. He was 
badgered and baited on all sides, and naturally began to 
see his own folly. His greatest fear was not so much 
that he should lose the money he had risked as that Ha- 
worth should discover his luckless weakness and confront 
and crush him with it. As he stood in fear of his daugh- 
ter, so he stood in fear of Haworth ; but his dread of Ha- 
worth was, perhaps, the stronger feeling of the two. His 
very refinement added to it. Having gained the object 
of his ambition, he had found it not exactly what he had 
pictured it. Haworth had not spared him; the very 
hands had derided his enthusiastic and strenuous efforts ; 
he had secretly felt that his position was ridiculous, and 
provocative of satire among the unscientific herd. When 
he had done anything which should have brought him 
success and helped him to assert himself, it had somehow 
always failed, and now . 

He sat down in the managerial chair before Haworth’s 
great table, strewn with papers and bills. He had shut 
the door behind him and was glad to be alone. 

“ I am extremely unfortunate,” he faltered aloud. “ I 
don’t know how to account for it.” And he glanced 
about him helplessly. Before the words had fairly left 
his lips his privacy was broken in upon. The door was 
flung open and Murdoch came in. He had evidently 
walked fast, for he was breathing heavily, and he had 
plainly expected to find the room empty. He looked at 
Ffrench, sat down and wiped his lips. 

“ I want you,” he began, with labored articulation, “ I 
want you — to tell me — what — I have done.” 


“ IT HAS ALL BEEN A LIE l 1 


287 


Ffrench could only stare at him. 

u I went to the house,” he said, “ and asked for her.” 
(He did not say for whom, nor was it necessary that he 
should. Ffrench understood him perfectly.) “ I swear I 
saw her standing at the window as I went up the path. 
She had a purple dress on — and a white flower in her hair 
— and Saint M^ran was at her side. Before, the man at 
the door never waited for me to speak ; this time he stood 
and looked at me. I said, ‘ I want to see Miss Ffrench ; ’ 
he answered, ‘ She is not at home.’ ‘ Not at home,’ ” — 
breaking into a rough laugh, — “ ‘ not at home ’ to me ! ” 

He clinched his fist and dashed it against the chair. 

“ What does it mean ? ” he cried out. “ What does it 
mean ? ” 

Ffrench quaked. 

“ I — I don’t know,” he answered, and his own face gave 
him the lie. 

Murdoch caught his words up and flung them back at 
him. 

“You don’t know!” he cried. “Then I will tell you. 
It means that she has been playing me false from first to 
last.” 

Ffrench felt his position becoming weaker and weaker. 
Here was a state of affairs he had never seen before ; 
here was a madness which concealed nothing, which defied 
all, which flung all social presuppositions to the winds. 
He ought to have been able to palter and equivocate, to 
prof ess a well-bred surprise and some delicate indignation, 
to be dignified and subtle ; but he was not. He could 
only sit and wonder what would come next, and feel un- 
comfortable and alarmed. The thing which came next he 
had not expected any more than he had expected the rest 
of the outbreak. 


288 


HAWORTH'S: 


Suddenly a sullen calmness settled upon the young fel- 
low — a calm which spoke of some fierce determination. 

“ I don’t know why I should have broken out like this 
before you,” he said. “ Seeing you here when I expected 
to fight it out alone, surprised me into it. But there is 
one thing I am going to do. I’ll hear the truth from her 
own lips. When you go home I will go with you. They 
wont turn me back then, and I’ll see her face to face.” 

“I ’’began Ffrench, and then added, completely 

overwhelmed, “ Very — perhaps it would be — be best.” 

“ Best ! ” echoed Murdoch, with another laugh. “ No, it 
won’t be best ; it will be worst ; but I’ll do it for all that.” 

And he dropped his head upon the arms he had folded 
on the chair’s back, and so sat in a forlorn, comfortless 
posture, not speaking, not stirring, as if he did not know 
that there was any presence in the room but his own. 

And he kept his word. As Ffrench was going out into 
the street at dusk he felt a touch on his shoulder, and 
turning, found Murdoch close behind him. 

“ I’m ready,” he said, “ if you are.” 

When they reached the house, the man who opened the 
door stared at them blankly, which so irritated Ffrench 
that he found an excuse for administering a sharp rebuke 
to him about some trifle. 

“ They are always making some stupid blunder,” he said 
to Murdoch as they passed upstairs to the drawing-room. 

But Murdoch did not hear. 

It was one of the occasions on which Rachel Ffrench 
reached her highest point of beauty. Her black velvet 
dress was almost severe in its simplicity, and her one orna- 
ment was the jewelled star in her high coiffure . M. St. 
Meran held his place at her side. He received Murdoch 
with emjpressement and exhibited much tact and good feel- 


“IT HAS ALL BEEN A LIE: 


289 


ing. But Murdoch would have none of him. He had 
neither tact nor experience. 

His time did not come until the evening was nearly 
over, and it would never have come if he had not at last 
forced her to confront him by making his way to her 
side with a daring which was so novel in him that it 
would have mastered another woman. 

Hear her he trembled a little, but he said what he had 
come to say. 

“ To-day,” he said, “ when I called — your servant told 
me you were not at home.” 

She paused a moment before answering, but when she 
did answer he trembled no more. 

u That was unfortunate,” she said. 

“ It was not true — I saw you at the window.” 

She looked him quietly in the face, answering him in 
two words. 

“ Did you ? ” 

He turned on his heel and walked away. His brain 
whirled ; he did not know how he got out of the room. 
He was scarcely conscious of existence until he found 
himself out-of-doors. He got beyond the gate and into 
the road, and to the end of the road, but there he stopped 
and turned back. He went back until he found he was 
opposite the house again, looking up at the lighted win- 
dow, he did not know why. A sharp rain was falling, 
but he did not feel it. He stood staring at the window, 
mechanically plucking at the leaves on the hedge near 
him. He scarcely knew whether it was a curse or a sob 
which fell from his lips and awakened him at last. 

“Am I going mad?” he said. “Do men go mad 
through such things? God forbid! It has all been a lie 
— a lie — a lie ! ! " 

13 


CHAPTER XLII. 


“ ANOTHER MAN ! ” 

In two days Haworth returned. He came from the 
station one morning, not having been home. He did not 
go to the Works, but to the bank and straight into 
Ffrench’s private room. 

The look this unhappy gentleman gave him when he 
saw him was a queer mixture of anxiety, furtive query, 
and amiably frank welcome, — the frank welcome a very 
faint element indeed, though it was brought to light by a 
violent effort. Haworth shut the door and locked it, and 
then turned upon him, his face black with rage. 

“ Say summat ! ” he ground out through his teeth. 
“ Say summat as’ 11 keep me from smashing every bone in 
your body ! ” 

Ffrench gave him one hopeless glance and wilted into 
a drooping, weakly protesting, humiliated figure. 

“ Don’t — don’t be so severe, Haworth,” he said. “ I — 
I ” 

“ Blast you ! ” burst in Haworth, pitilessly. “ You’ve 
ruined me ! ” 

He spoke under his breath. No one in the room be- 
yond could hear a word, but it was a thousand times 
more terrible than if he had roared at the top of his 
voice, as was his custom when things went amiss. 


ANOTHER MAN! 


291 


“ You’ve ruined me ! ” he repeated. “ You! A chap 
that’s played gentleman manufacturer; a chap I’ve 
laughed at ; a chap I took in to serve my own ends — 
ruined me, by ” 

“ Oh, no, no ! ” the culprit cried out. “ My dear fel- 
low, no ! No, no ! ” 

Haworth strode up to him and struck his fist against 
the table. 

“ Have I ever told you a word of what was going on ? ” 
he demanded. 

“No! No!” 

“ Have I ever let you be aught but what I swore you 
should be at th’ first — a fellow to play second fiddle and 
do what he was told ? ” 

Ffrench turned pale. A less hard nature would have 
felt more sympathy for him. 

“ No,” he answered, “ you have not,” and his chin 
dropped on his breast. 

Haworth shook his fist in his face. He was in a frenzy 
of rage and despair. 

“ It’s been going from bad to worse for six months,” he 
said ; “ but you were not up to seeing it stare you in the 
face. Strikes are the things for trade to thrive on ! One 
place after another gone down and Jem Haworth’s stood 
up. Jem Haworth’s outdone ’em all. I’ve not slept for 
three month, my lad. I’ve fought it like a tiger ! I’ve 
not left a stone unturned. I’ve held my mouth shut and 
my eyes open, — aye, and held my breath, too. I’ve swore 
every time I saw daylight that I’d hold it out to the end 
and show ’em all what Haworth was made of, and how 
he stood when th’ nobs went down at the first drive. I’d 
sooner have hell than what’s bound to come now ! And 
it’s you that’s done it. You’ve lost me twenty thousand 


292 


“ HAWORTH'S: 


pound — twenty thousand, when ten’s worth more to me 
than a hundred was a twelvemonth since ! ” 

Ffrench quailed like a woman. 

u Are — are you going to murder me ? ” he said. u You 
look as if you were.” 

Haworth turned on his heel. 

“ You’re not worth it,” he answered, “ or I’d do it, by 
the Lord Harry.” 

Then he came back to him. 

“ I’ve paid enow for what I’ve never had, by George,” 
he said, with bitter grimness. 

“ For what you have ” Ffrench began. 

Haworth stopped him by flinging himself down in a 
chair near him — so near that their faces were brought 
within uncomfortably close range of each other. There 
was no avoiding his eye. 

u You know what,” he sneered. “ None better.” 

“ I ” Ffrench faltered. 

“ Blast you ! ” said Haworth. “ You played her like 
bait to a fish — in your gentleman’s fashion.” 

Ffrench felt a little sick. It was not unnatural that 
he should. A man of refined instincts likes less than any 
other man to be confronted brutally with the fact that 
he has, however delicately, tampered with a coarseness. 

Haworth went on. 

“ You knew how to do it, and you did it — gentleman 
way. You knew me and you knew I was hard hit and you 
knew I’d make a big throw. That was between us two, 
though we never said a word. I’d never give up a thing 
in my life before and I was mad for her. She knew how 
to hold me off and gave me plenty to think of. What else 
had you, my lad \ 1 Haworth’s ’ didn’t want a gentleman ; 

‘ Haworth’s ’ didn’t want brass, and you’d none to give if 


“ANOTHER MAN! 


293 


it did. It wasn’t you who was took in partner ; it was 
what Jem Haworth was aiming at — and has missed, 
by ” 

He got up, and, pushing his chair back, made a stride 
toward the door. Ffrench was sure he was going away 
without another word, but he suddenly stopped and turned 
back. 

“ I’d sooner take hell than what’s cornin’,” he repeated 
in a hoarse whisper. “ And it’s you that’s brought it on 
me ; but if I’d got what I aimed at, it might have come 
and welcome.” 

Then he went out. 

He went across to the Works, and, going into his room, 
he found Murdoch standing at one of the windows gazing 
out at something in the street. He was haggard and gaunt 
and had a vacant look. It occurred to Haworth that 
some sudden physical ailment had attacked him. He went 
up to his side. 

“ What have you found, lad ? ” he demanded. 

The next instant his own eyes discovered what it was. 
An open carriage was just drawing up before the bank. 
Rachel Ffrench sat in it, and Saint Meran was with her. 

He looked at them a second or so and then looked at 
Murdoch — at his wretched face and his hollow eyes. An 
unsavory exclamation burst from him. 

“ What ! ” he cried out after it. “ There’s another man, 
is there ? Is it that ? ” 

“ Yes,” was Murdoch’s monotonous reply. “There’s 
another man.” 


CHAPTEB XLIII. 


a EVEN. 5 ’ 

The same evening M. Saint M^ran had the pleasure of 
meeting a person of whom he had heard much, and in 
whom he was greatly interested. This person was the 
master of “ Haworth’s,” who came in after dinner. 

If he had found Murdoch a little trying and wearisome, 
M. Saint Meran found Haworth astounding. He was not 
at all prepared for him. When he walked into the room 
as if it were his own, gave a bare half -nod to Ffrench, 
and carried himself aggressively to Miss Ffrench’s side, 
Saint Meran was transfixed with astonishment. He had 
heard faint rumors of something like this before, but he 
never dreamed of seeing it. He retreated within himself 
and proceeded to study minutely the manners and char- 
acteristics of the successful manufacturers of Great 
Britain. 

“ He is very large,” he said, with soft sarcasm, to Miss 
Ffrench. “ V ery large indeed.” 

“ That,” replied Miss Ffrench, “ is probably the result 
of the iron trade.” 

The truth was that he seemed to fill the room. The 
time had passed when he was ill at ease in the house. 
How he was cool to defiance. Ffrench had never found 
him so embarrassing as he was upon this particular even- 
ing. He spoke very little, sitting in his chair silent, with 


“EVEN: 


295 


a gloomy and brooding look. When he directed his atten. 
tion upon any one, it was upon Kachel. The prolonged 
gaze which he occasionally fixed upon her was one of evil 
scrutiny, which stirred her usually cool blood not a little. 
She never failed, however, to meet it with composure. 
At last she did a daring thing. Under cover of a conven 
sation between her father and Saint Meran, she went to 
the table at his side and began to turn over the books 
upon it. 

“ I think,” she said, in an undertone, “ that you have 
something to say to me.” 

“ Aye,” he answered, “ I have that, and the time ’ll 
come when I shall say it, too.” 

“You think I’m afraid to hear it,” she continued. 
“ Follow me into the next room and see.” 

Then she addressed her father, speaking aloud. 

w Your plans for the new bank are in the next room, I 
believe,” she said. “ I wish to show them to Mr. Ha- 
worth.” 

“ Y — yes,” he admitted, somewhat reluctantly. “ They 
are on my table.” 

She passed through the folding doors and Haworth fol- 
lowed her. She stopped at one of the windows and 
waited for him to speak, and it was during this moment 
in which she waited that he saw in her face what he had 
not seen before — a faint pallor and a change which was 
not so much a real change as the foreshadowing of one to 
come. He saw it now because it chanced that the light 
struck full upon her. 

“ How,” she said, “ say your say. But let me tell you 
that I shall listen not because I feel a shadow of interest 
in it, but because I know you thought I shrank from hear- 
ing it.” 


296 


“HAWORTH'S.' 


He pushed open the French window and strode on to 
the terrace. 

“ Step out here,” he said. 

She went out. 

“ This,” he said, glancing about him, “ this is th’ place 
you stood on th’ night you showed yourself to the stri- 
kers.” 

She made no answer. 

“ It’s as good a place as any,” he went on. “ I’m going 
to have it out with you,” he said, with bitter significance. 

Then, for the first time, it struck her that she had over- 
stepped the mark and done a dangerous thing, but she 
would have borne a great deal sooner than turn back, and 
so she remained. 

“ I’ve stood it a long time,” he said, “ and now I’m go- 
ing to reckon up. There’s a good bit of reckoning up to 
be done betwixt you and me, for all you’ve held me at 
arm’s length.” 

“ I am glad,” she put in, “ that you acknowledge that I 
did hold you at arm s length, and that you were not blind 
to it.” 

“ Oh,” he answered, “ I wasn’t blind to it, no more than 
you were blind to the other ; and from first to last it’s 
been my comfort to remember that you weren’t blind to 
the other — that you knew it as well as I did. I’ve held 
to that.” 

He came close to her. 

“ When I give up what I’d worked twenty year to get, 
what did I give it up for? For you. When I took 
Ffrench in partner, what did I run the risk for? For 
you. What was to pay me ? YouP 

His close presence in the shadow was so intolerable to 
her that she could have cried out, but she did not. 


“ even: 


297 


“ Yon made a poor bargain,” she remarked. 

“ Aye, a poor bargain ; but you were one in it. You 
bore it in your mind, and you’ve bore it there from then 
till now, and I’ve got a hold on you through it that’s 
worth summat to me, if I never came nigh nor touched 
you. You knew it, and you let it be. No other chap can 
pay more for you than Jem Haworth’s paid. I’ve got 
that to think of.” 

She made a gesture with her hand. 

“ I — I — hush ! ” she cried. “ I will not hear it ! ” 

“ Stop it, if you can. Call ’em if you want, and let 
’em hear — th’ new chap and all. You shall hear, if all 
Broxton comes. I’ve paid twenty-five year of work and 
sweat and grime; I’ve paid ‘Haworth’s’ — for I’m a 
ruined chap as I stand here ; and but for you I’d have 
got through.” 

There was a shock in these last words ; if they were 
true the blow would fall on her too. 

“ What,” she faltered, — “ what do you mean ? ” 

“ Th’ strikes begun it,” he answered, laconically, “ and,” 
with a jerk of his thumb toward the room in which her 
father sat, “ he finished it. He tried some of his gentle- 
man pranks in a quiet way, and he lost money on ’em. 
He’s lost it again and again, and tried to cover it with 
fresh shifts, and it’s ‘ Haworth’s ’ that must pay for ’em. 
It’ll come sooner or later, and you may make up your 
mind to it.” 

“ What were you doing?” she demanded, sharply. 
u You might have known ” 

“ Aye,” he returned, “ what was I doing ? I used to be 
a sharp chap enow. I’ve not been as sharp i’ th last twelve- 
month, and he was up to it. He thought it was his own 
brass, likely — he’d give summat for it as belonged to him.” 

13 * 


298 


“HAWORTH'S. 


He came nearer to the light and eyed her over. 

“ You’ve had your day,” he said. u You’ve made a 
worse chap of me than I need have been. You — you lost 
me a friend; I hadn’t counted that in. You’ve done 
worse by him than you’ve done by me. He was th’ finer 
mak’ of th’ two, and it’ll go harder with him. When I 
came in, he was hanging about the road-side, looking up 
at the house. He didn’t see me, but I saw him. He’ll 
be there many a night, I dare say. I’d be ready to swear 
he’s there now.” 

“ Whom do you mean ? ” 

' “ I mean — Murdoch ! ” 

The very sound of his own voice seemed to fire him 
with rage. She saw a look in his eye which caused her 
to shrink back. But she was too late. He caught her by 
the arm and dragged her toward him. 

A second later when he released her, she staggered to 
one of the rustic seats and sank crouching into it, hiding 
her face in the folds of her dress. She had not cried out, 
however, nor uttered a sound, and he had known she would 
not. 

He stood looking down at her. 

“ A gentleman wouldn’t have done it,” he said, hoarsely. 
“ I’m not a gentleman. You’ve held me off and trampled 
me under foot. That’ll leave us a bit even.” 

And he turned on his heel and walked away into the 
darkness. 


CHAPTER XLIV, 

“ WHY DO YOU CRY FOR ME ? 99 

When he said that he had seen Murdoch standing in the 
road before the house, he had spoken the truth. It was 
also true that even as they stood upon the terrace he was 
there still. 

He was there every night. Where he slept or when, or 
if at all, his mother and Christian did not know ; they 
only knew that he never spent a night at home. They 
barely saw him from day to day. When he came home 
in the morning and evening, it was to sit at the table, 
rarely speaking, scarcely tasting food, only drinking 
greedily the cup of strong coffee Christian always had in 
readiness for him. The girl was very good to him in 
these days. She watched him in terror of his unnatural 
mood. He hardly seemed to see them when they were in 
the room with him ; his eyes were hollow and burning 
bright ; he grew thin and narrow-chested and stooped ; 
his hands were unsteady when he lifted anything. 

When she was alone, Christian said to herself again and 
again : 

“ He will die. There is no help for it. He will die — 
or worse.” 

One morning she came down to find him lying on the 
sofa with closed eyes and such a deathly face that she 
almost cried out aloud. But she restrained herself and 


300 


“HAWORTH'S: 


went into the kitchen as if to perform her usual tasks. 
Not long afterward she returned carrying a little tray with 
a cup of hot coffee upon it. 

“ Will you drink this for me ? ” she said to him. 

He opened his eyes a little impatiently, but he sat up 
and drank it. 

“ It’s very good,” he said, as he fell back again into his 
old position, “ but you mustn’t put yourself to trouble for 
me.” 

Afterward the coffee was always ready for him when 
he came in, and he got into the habit of drinking it me- 
chanically. 

The books he had been accustomed to pore over at 
every leisure moment lay unopened. He neither touched 
nor looked at them. 

The two women tried to live their lives as if nothing 
were happening. They studiously avoided questioning 
or appearing to observe him. 

“We must not let him think that we talk of him,” 
Christian said. 

She showed a wonderful gentleness and tact. Until 
long afterward, Mrs. Murdoch scarcely knew what support 
and comfort she had in her. Her past life had planted 
in her a readiness to despair. 

“ He is like his father,” she said once. “ He was like 
him as a child. He is very trusting and faithful, but 
when his belief is gone it is all over. He has given up as 
his father did before he died. He will not try to live.” 

He did not try to live, but he did not think of death. 
He was too full of other morbid thoughts. He could not 
follow any idea far. A thousand of them came and went, 
and in the end were as nothing. 

“ Why,” he kept saying to himself weakly and wearily, 


“ WHY DO YOU CRY FOR ME?” SOI 

— “ why was it ? What had I done ? It was a strange 
thing to choose me out of so many. I was hardly worth 
it. To have chosen another man would have served her 
better.” 

He did not know how the days passed at the Works. 
The men began to gaze at him askance and mutter when 
he went by. 

“ Th’ feyther went daft,” they said. “ Is this chap 
goin’ th’ same way ? ” 

It was only the look of his face which made them say 
so. He got through his work one way or another. But 
the days were his dread. The nights, strange and dread- 
ful enough, were better than the broad daylight, with the 
scores of hands about him and the clangor of hammers 
and whir of machinery. He fell into the habit of going 
to the engine-room and standing staring at the engine, 
fascinated by it. Once he drew nearer and nearer with 
such a look in his eye that Floxham began to regard him 
stealthily. He went closer, pace by pace, and at last 
made a step which brought a shout from Floxham, who 
sprang upon him and tore him away. 

“ What art at, tha foo’ ? ” he yelled. “ Does tha want 
to go whoam on a shutter ? ” 

Wakening, with a long breath, he said : 

“ I forgot, that was it. I was thinking of another 
thing.” 

The time came at length when he had altered so that 
when he went out his mother and Christian often sat up 
together half the night trembling with a fear neither of 
them would have put into words. As they sat trying to 
talk, each would glance at the other stealthily, and when 
their eyes met, each would start as if with some guilty 
thought. 


302 


“ HA WORTH'S.' 


On one of the worst and most dreadful of nights, Chris- 
tian suddenly rose from her seat, crossed the hearth and 
threw herself upon her knees before her companion. 

“ I am going out,” she said. “ Don’t — don’t try to keep 
me.” 

“ It is midnight,” said Mrs. Murdoch, “ and — you don’t 
know where to go.” 

“ Yes,” the girl returned, “ I do. For God’s sake, let 
me go ! I cannot bear it.” 

The woman gave her a long look, and then said a strange 
and cruel thing. 

“ You had better stay where you are. It is not you he 
wants.” 

“ No,” she said bitterly, “it is not I he wants ; but I 
can find him and make sure — that — he will come back. 
And then you will go to sleep.” She left her in spite of 
her efforts to detain her. She was utterly fearless, and 
went into the night as if there was no such thing as peril 
oa earth. 

She did know where to go and went there. Murdoch 
was standing opposite the house in which Rachel Ffrench 
slept. She went to him and put her hand on his arm. 

“ What are you doing here \ ” she said, in a low voice. 
He turned and gave her a cold, vacant look. He did not 
seem at all surprised at finding her dark, beautiful young 
face at his very shoulder. 

“ I don’t know. Can you tell me ? ” 

“We have been waiting for you,” she said. “We can- 
not rest when you are away.” 

“ Do you want me to go home and go to bed decent- 
ly and sleep ? ” he said. “ Do you suppose I would not, 
if I could ? I always start from here and come back 
here. I say to myself, c It will take me an hour to reach 


“ WHY DO YOU CRY FOR ME t 


303 


the place where I can see her window.’ It is something 
to hold one’s mind in check with. This rambling — and 
— and forgetting what one has meant to think about is a 
terrible thing.” 

“ Come home with me,” she said. “ We will not talk. 
You can lie on the sofa and we will go away. I want 
your mother to sleep.” 

Something in her presence began to influence him to a 
saner mood. 

“ What are you doing here ? ” he asked. “ It is mid- 
night.” 

“ I am not afraid. I could not bear to stay in the 
house. We sit there ” 

An idea seemed to strike him suddenly. He stopped 
her and asked deliberately : 

“ Did you come because you thought I might do myself 
harm ? ” 

She would not answer, and after waiting a second or so 
he went on slowly : 

u I have thought I might myself — sometimes, but never 
for long. You have no need to fear. I am always stopped 
by the thought that — perhaps — it is not worth it after all. 
When things look clearer, I shall get over it. Yes — I 
think I shall get over it — though now there seems to be 
no end. But — some day — it will come — and I shall get 
over it. Don’t be afraid that I shall do myself harm. If 
I am not killed — before the end comes — I shall not kill 
myself. I shall know it was not worth it after all.” 

The tears had been running down her cheeks as she 
stood, but she bit her lip and forced herself to breathe 
evenly, so that he might not find her out. But just then, 
as he moved, a great drop fell upon the back of his hand. 
He stopped and began to tremble. 


304 


“ HAWORTH'S : 


“ Good heavens ! ” he cried. u You are crying. Why 
do you cry for me ? ” 

“ Because I cannot help it,” she said in a half -whisper. 
“ I do not cry often. I never cried for any one before.” 

“ I’ll take you home,” he said, moving slowly along at 
her side. “ Don’t cry.” 


CHAPTER XLY. 


“it 18 WORSE THAN I THOUGHT.” 

A week or so later Saint Meran went away. Ffrench 
informed his partner of this fact with a secret hope of 
its producing upon him a somewhat softening effect. 
But Haworth received the statement with coolness. 

“ He’ll come back again,” he said. “ Let him alone for 
that.” 

The general impression was that he would return. The 
opinion most popular in the more humble walks of Brox- 
ton society was that he had gone “ to get hissen ready an’ 
ha’ th’ papers drawed up,” and that he would appear 
some fine day with an imposing retinue, settle an enormous 
fortune upon Miss Ffrench, and, having been united to 
her with due grandeur and solemnity, would disappear 
with her to indefinitely “ furrin ” parts. 

There seemed to be little change in Rachel Ffrench’s 
life and manner, however. She began to pay rather 
more strict attention to her social duties, and consequently 
went out oftener. This might possibly be attributed to 
the fact that remaining in-doors was somewhat dull. Ha- 
worth and Murdoch came no more, and after Saint Meran’s 
departure a sort of silence seemed to fall upon the house. 
Ffrench himself felt it when he came in at night, and was 
naturally restless under it. Perhaps Miss Ffrench felt it, 
too, though she did not say so. 


306 


“HAWORTH'S: 


One morning, Janey Briarley, sitting nursing the baby 
in the door- way of the cottage, glanced upward from her 
somewhat arduous task to find a tall and graceful figure 
standing before her in the sun. She had been too busily 
engaged to hear footsteps, and there had been no sound 
of carriage- wheels, so the visitor had come upon her en- 
tirely unawares. 

It cannot be said she received her graciously. Her 
whilom admiration had been much tempered by sharp 
distrust very early in her acquaintance with its object. 

“ Art tha coomin’ in % ” she asked unceremoniously. 

“ Yes,” said Miss Ffrench, “ I am coming in.” 

Janey got up and made room for her to pass, and when 
she had passed, gave her a chair, very much overweighted 
by the baby as she did so. 

“ Does tha want to see mother \ ” 

“ If your mother is busy, you will serve every purpose. 
The housekeeper told me that Mrs. Dixon was ill, and as 
I was passing I thought I would come in.” 

Janey’s utter disbelief in this explanation was a senti- 
ment not easily concealed, even by an adept in controlling 
facial expression, and she was not an adept. But Miss 
Ffrench was not at all embarrassed by any demonstration 
of a lack of faith which she might have perceived. When 
Janey resumed her seat, she broke the silence by an en- 
tirely unexpected observation. She touched the baby 
delicately with the point of her parasol — very delicately 
indeed. 

“ 1 suppose,” she remarked, “ that this is an extremely 
handsome child.” 

This with the air of one inquiring for information. 

“ Nay, he is na,” retorted Janey unrelentingly. “ He’s 
good enow, but he nivver wur hurt wi’ good looks. None 


“ IT IS WORSE THAN I THOUGHTS 307 

on ’em wur, an’ he’s fou’est o’ th’ lot. I should think 
tha could see that fur thysen.” 

“ Oh,” replied Miss Ffrench, “ then I suppose I am 
wrong. My idea was that at that age children all looked 
alike.” 

“ Loike him ? *’ said Janey dryly. “ Did tha think as 
tha did?” 

As the young Briarley in question was of a stolid and 
unornamental type, uncertain of feature and noticeable 
chiefly for a large and unusually bald head of extraordi- 
nary phrenological development, this gave the matter an 
entirely novel aspect. 

“ Perhaps,” said Miss Ffrench, “ I scarcely regarded it 
from that point of view.” 

Then she changed the subject. 

“ How is Mrs. Dixon ? ” she inquired. 

“ She’s neyther better nor worse,” was the answer, “ an’ 
a mort o’ trouble.” 

“ That is unfortunate. Who cares for her ? ” 

“ Mother. She’s th’ on’y one as can do owt wi’ her.” 

“ Is there no one else she has a fancy for — your father, 
for instance?” inquired Miss Ffrench. 

“ She conna bide th’ soight o’ him, an’ he’s feart to go 
nigh her. Th’ ony man as she ivver looked at wur Mur- 
doch,” answered Janey. 

“ I think I remember his saying she had made friends 
with him. Is she as fond of him now ? ” 

“ I dunnot know as I could ca’ it bein’ fond on him. 
She is na fond o’ nobody. But she says he’s getten a bit 
more sense than th’ common run.” 

“It is rather good-natured on his part to come to see 
her ” 

“ He does na coom to see her. He has na been nigh 


308 


“ HA WORTH'S.” 


th’ house fur a month. He’s been ill hissen or summat. 
He’s up an’ about, but he’d getten a face loike Death th’ 
last toime 1 seed him. Happen he’s goin’ off loike his 
feyther.” 

“ How is that ? ” 

u Did na tha know,” with some impatience, “ as he 
went crazy over summat he wur makkin’, an’ deed ’cause 
he could na mak’ out to finish it ? It’s th’ very thing 
Murdoch took up hissen an’ th’ stroikers wur so set ag’in.” 

“ I think I remember. There was a story about the 
father. Do you — think he is really ill ? ” 

“ Murdoch? Aye, I do. — Mak’less noise, Tummos 
Henry ! ” (This to the child.) 

“ That is a great pity. Ah, there is the carriage.” 

One of her gloves had been lying upon her lap. When 
she stood up, it dropped. She bent to pick it up, and as 
she did so something fell tinkling upon the flag floor and 
rolled under a table. It was one of her rings. Janey 
brought it back to her. 

“ It mun ha’ been too large fur thee,” she said, “ or 
tha’rt gettin’ thin. Seems loike tha’rt a bit different to 
what tha wur,” with a glance at her. 

“Never mind that,” she answered sharply, as she 
handed her some money. “ Give this to your mother.” 

And she dropped the ring into her purse instead of 
putting it on again, and went out to her carriage. 

Janey stood and watched her. 

“ She is a bit thinner, or summat,” she remarked, “ but 
she need na moind that. It’s genteel enow to be thin, an’ 
I dunnot know as it ud hurt her.” 

Rachel Ffrench went home, and the same afternoon 
Murdoch came to her for the last time. 

He had not intended to come. In his wildest moments 


u IT IS WORSE THAN I THOUGHT. 


309 


he had never thought of going to her again, but as he 
passed along the road, intending to spend the afternoon 
in wandering across the country, he looked up at the win- 
dows of the house, and a strange fancy seized upon him. 
He would go in and ask her the question he had asked 
himself again and again. It did not seem to him at the 
time a strange thing to do. It looked wonderfully sim- 
ple and natural in his strained and unnatural mood. He 
turned in at the gate with only one feeling — that perhaps 
she would tell him, and then it would be over. She saw 
him come up the path, and wondered if the man at the 
door would remember the charge she had given him. It 
chanced that he did not remember, or that he was thrown 
off his guard. She heard feet on the stairs in a few 
seconds, and almost immediately Murdoch was in the 
room. What she thought when, being brought thus near 
to him, she saw and recognized the dreadful change in 
him, God knows. She supported herself with her hand 
upon the back of her chair as she rose. There was a look 
in his face almost wolfish. He would not sit down, and 
in three minutes broke through the barrier of her effort 
at controlling him. It was impossible for her to control 
him as she might have controlled another man. 

“ I have only a few words to say,” he said. “ I have 
come to ask you a question. I think that is all — only to 
ask you a question.” 

“ Will you tell me,” he said, “ what wrong I have done 
you ? ” 

She put her other hand on the chair and held it firmly. 

** Will you tell me,” she said, almost in a whisper, 
“ what wrong I have done you f ” 

She remained so, looking at him and he at her, with a 
terrible helplessness, through a moment of dead silence. 


310 


“HAWORTH'S: 


She dropped her face upon her hands as she held the 
chair, and so stood. 

He fell back a pace, gazing at her still. 

“ I have heard of women who fancied themselves in- 
jured,” he said, “ planning to revenge themselves upon 
the men who had intentionally or unintentionally wound- 
ed their pride. I remember such things in books I have 
read, not in real life, and once or twice the thought has 
crossed my mind that at some time in the past I might, 
in my poor ignorance, have presumed — or — blundered in 
some way to — anger you — and that this has been my pun- 
ishment. It is only a wild thought, but it was a straw to 
cling to, and I would rather believe it, wild as it is, than 
believe that what you have done has been done wantonly. 
Can it be — is it true ? ” 

“No.” 

But she did not lift her face. 

“ It is not % ” 

“ No.” 

“ Then it is worse than I thought.” 

He said the words slowly and clearly, and they were 
his last. Having said them, he went away without a 
backward glance. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 


ONCE AGAIN. 

In half an hour’s time Murdoch had left Broxton far 
behind him. He left the open road and rambled across 
fields and through lanes. The people in the farm-houses, 
who knew him, saw him pass looking straight before him 
and walking steadily like a man with an end in view. 

His mind was full of one purpose — the determination 
to control himself and keep his brain clear. 

“ Now ,” he said, “ let me think it over — now let me 
look at it in cold blood.” 

The effort he made was something gigantic ; it was a 
matter of physical as well as mental force. He had wav- 
ered and been vague long enough. Now the time had 
come to rouse himself through sheer power of will, or 
give up the reins and drift with the current, a lost man. 

At dusk he reached Dillup, and roamed about the 
streets, half conscious of his surroundings. The Saturday- 
night shopping was going on, and squalid women hurry- 
ing past him with their baskets on their arms glanced up, 
wondering at his dark face and preoccupied air. 

“ He’s noan Dillup,” they said ; one good woman going 
so far as to add that “ she did na loike th’ looks on him 
neyther,” with various observations upon the moral char- 
acter of foreigners in general. He saw nothing of the 
sensation he created, however. He rambled about errati- 


312 


“HAWORTH'S. 


cally until he felt the need of rest, and then went into a 
clean little shop and bought some simple food and ate it 
sitting upon the tall stool before the counter, watched by 
the stout, white-aproned matron in charge. 

“ Tha looks poorly, m ester,” she said, as she handed 
him his change. 

He started a little on hearing her voice, but recovered 
himself readily. 

“ Oh no,” he said. “ I’m right enough, I think. I’m 
an American, and I suppose we are rather a gaunt- look- 
ing lot as a rule.” 

“ ’Merikin, art tha ? ” she replied. “Well to be sure ! 
Happen that’s it” (good naturedly). “I’ve alius heerd 
they wur a poor color. ’Merikin ! Well — sure-Zy / ” 

The fact of his being an American seemed to impress 
her deeply. She received his thanks (she was not often 
thanked by her customers) as a mysterious though not 
disagreeable result of his nationality, and as he closed the 
door after him he heard, as an accompaniment to the 
tinkling of the shop-bell, her amiably surprised ejacula- 
tion, “ A ’Merikin ! Well — sur e-ly / ” 

A few miles from Broxton there was a substantial little 
stone bridge upon which he had often sat. In passing it 
again and again it had gradually become a sort of rest- 
ing place for him. It was at a quiet point of the road, 
and sitting upon it he had thought out many a problem. 
When he reached it on his way back he stopped and took 
his usual seat, looking down into the slow little stream 
beneath, and resting against the low buttress. He had 
not come to work out a problem now ; he felt that he had 
worked his problem out in the past six hours. 

“ It was not worth it,” he said. “ No — it was not worth 
it after all.” 


ONCE AGAIN. 


313 


When he went on his way again he was very tired, and 
he wondered drearily whether, when he came near the 
old miserable stopping place, he should not falter and feel 
the fascination strong upon him again. He had an an- 
noying fear of the mere possibility of such a thing. When 
he saw the light striking slantwise upon the trees it might 
draw him toward it as it had done so often before — even 
in spite of his determination and struggles. 

Half a mile above the house a great heat ran over him, 
and then a deadly chill, but he went on steadily. There 
was this for him, that for the first time he could think 
clearly and not lose himself. 

He came nearer to it and nearer, and it grew in bright- 
ness. He fancied he had never seen it so bright before. 
He looked up at it and then away. He was glad that 
having once looked he could turn away ; there had been 
many a night when he could not. Then he was under the 
shadow of the trees and knew that his dread had been 
only a fancy, and that he was a saner man than he had 
thought. And the light was left behind him and he did 
not look back, but went on. 

When he reached home the house was utterly silent. 
He entered with his latch-key and finding all dark went 
upstairs noiselessly. 

The door of his own room was closed, and when he 
opened it he found darkness there also. He struck a 
match and turned on the light. For a moment its sudden 
glare blinded him, and then he turned involuntarily toward 
the farther corner of the room. Why he did so, he did 
not know at the time, — the movement was the result of an 
uncontrollable impulse, — but after he had looked he knew. 

The light shone upon the empty chair in its old place— 
and upon the table and upon the model standing on it ! 

14 


314 


U IIA WORTH'S” 


He did not utter any exclamation ; strangely enough^ 
he did not at first feel any shock or surprise. He advanced 
toward it slowly. But when at last he stood near it, the 
shock came. His heart beat as if it would burst. 

“ What falseness is there in me,” he cried, “ that I should 
have forgotten it % ” 

He was stricken with burning shame. He did not ask 
himself how it was that it stood there in its place. He 
thought of nothing but the lack in himself which w r as so 
deep a humiliation. Everything else was swept away. 
He sank into the chair and sat staring at it. 

“ I had forgotten it,” he said , — “ forgotten it.” 

And then he put out his hand and touched and moved 
it — and drew it toward him. 

About an hour afterward he was obliged to go down- 
stairs for something he needed. It was to the sitting-room 
he went, and when he pushed the door open he found a 
dim light burning and saw that some one was lying upon 
the sofa. His first thought was that it was his mother 
who had waited for him, but it was not she — it was Chris- 
tian Murdoch, fast asleep with her face upon her arm. 

Her hat and gloves were thrown upon the table and she 
still wore a long gray cloak which was stained and damp 
about the hem. He saw this as soon as he saw her face, 
and no sooner saw than he understood. 

Ht went to the sofa and stood a moment looking down 
at her, and, though he did not speak or stir, she awakened. 

She sat up and pushed her cloak aside, and he spoke to 
her. 

“ It was you who brought it back,” he said. 

“ Yes,” she answered quietly. “ I thought that if you 
saw it in the old place again, you would remember.” 


ONCE AGAIN. 


315 


“ You did not forget it.” 

“ I had nothing else to think of,” was her simple reply. 

€C I must seem a poor sort of fellow to you,” he said 
wearily. “ I am a poor sort of fellow.” 

“ No,” she said “ or I should not have thought it worth 
while to bring it back.” 

He glanced down at her dress and then up at her face. 

“ You had better go upstairs to bed,” he said. a The 
dew has made your dress and cloak damp. Thank you 
for what you have done.” 

She got up and turned away. 

“ Good -night,” she said. 

“ Good-night,” he answered, and watched her out of the 
room. 

Then he found what he required and went back to his 
work ; only, more than once as he bent over it, he thought 
again of the innocent look of her face aa it had rested 
upon her arm while she slept. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 


A FOOTSTEP. 

He went out no more at night. From the moment he 
laid his hand upon the model again he was safer than he 
knew. Gradually the old fascination re-asserted itself. 
There were hours of lassitude and weariness to be borne, 
and moments of unutterable bitterness and disgust for 
life, in which he had to fight sharp battles against the 
poorer side of his nature ; but always at the worst there 
was something which made itself a point to fix thought 
upon. He could force himself to think of this when, if 
he had had no purpose in view, he would have been a 
lost man. The keen sense of treachery to his own resolve 
stung him, but it was a spur after all. The strength of the 
reaction had its physical effect upon him, and sometimes 
he suddenly found himself weak to exhaustion, — so weak 
that any exertion was impossible, and he was obliged to 
leave his post at the Works and return home for rest. At 
such times he lay for hours upon the narrow sofa in the dull 
little room, as his father had done long before, and wore 
a look so like him that, one day, his mother coming into 
the room not knowing he was there, cried out aloud and 
staggered backward, clutching at her breast. 

Her manner toward him softened greatly in these days. 
It was more what it had been in his boyhood, when she 
had watched over him with patient and unfailing fond- 


A FOOTSTEP. 


317 


ness. Once he awakened to see her standing a few paces 
from his side, seeming to have been there some moments. 

“ If — I have seemed hard to you in your trouble,” she 
said, “ forgive me.” 

She spoke without any prelude, and did not seem to 
expect any answer, turning away and going about her 
work at once, but he felt that he need feel restless and 
chilled in her presence no longer. 

He did not pursue his task at home, but took the model 
down to the Works and found a place for it in his little 
work-cell. 

The day he did so he was favored by a visit from Ha- 
worth. It was the first since the rupture between them. 
Since then they had worked day after day with only the 
door between them, they had known each other’s incom- 
ings and outgoings, but had been as far apart as if a 
world separated them. Haworth had known more of 
Murdoch than Murdoch had known of him. No change 
in him had escaped his eye. He had seen him struggle 
and reach his climax at last. He had jeered at him as a 
poor enough fellow with fine, white-livered fancies, and a 
woman’s way of bearing himself. He had raged at and 
cursed him, and now and then had been lost in wonder 
at him, but he had never fathomed him from first to last. 

But within the last few weeks his mood had changed, — 
slowly, it is true, but it had changed. His bearing had 
changed, too. Murdoch himself gradually awakened to a 
recognition of this fact, in no small wonder. He was less 
dogged and aggressive, and showed less ill-will. 

That he should appear suddenly, almost in his old way, 
was a somewhat startling state of affairs, but he crossed 
the threshold coolly. 

He sat down and folded his arms on the table. 


318 


“HAWORTH'S: 


“ Y ou brought summat down with you tJais morning,” 
he said. “ What was it ? ” 

1 Murdoch pointed to the wooden case, which stood on a 
shelf a few feet from him. 

“ It was that,” he answered. 

“ That ! ” he repeated. “ What ! You’re at work at it 
again, are you \ ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, look sharp after it, that’s all. There’s a grudge 
bore again it.” 

“ I know that,” Murdoch answered, “ to my cost. I 
brought it here because I thought it would be safer.” 

“ Aye, it’ll be safer. Take my advice and keep it 
close, and work at it at nights, when th’ place is quiet. 
There’s a key as ’ll let you in.” And he flung a key down 
upon the table. 

Murdoch picked it up mechanically. He felt as if he 
could scarcely be awake. It seemed as if the man must 
have brought his purpose into the room with him, having 
thought it over beforehand. His manner by no means 
disarmed the suspicion. 

“ It is the favor I should have asked, if I had 
thought ” 

Haworth left his chair. 

“ There’s th’ key,” he said, abruptly. “ Use it. No 
other chap would get it.” 

He went back to his own room, and Murdoch was left 
to his surprise. 

He finished his work for the day, and went home, re- 
maining there until night came on. Then he went back 
to the Works, having first told Christian of his purpose. 

“ I am going to the Works,” he said. “ I may be there 
all night. Don’t wait for me, or feel anxious.” 


A FOOTSTEP. 


319 


When the great building loomed up before him in the 
dark, his mind recalled instantly the night he had entered 
it before, attracted by the light in the window. There 
was no light about it now but that shut in the lantern he 
carried. The immensity and dead stillness would have 
been a trying thing for many a man to encounter, but as 
he relocked the door and made his way to his den, he 
thought of them only from one point of view. 

“ It is the silence of the grave,” he said. “ A man can 
concentrate himself upon his work as if there was not a 
human breath stirring within a mile of him.” 

Somehow, even his room wore a look which seemed to 
belong to the silence of night — a look he felt he had not 
seen before. He marked it with a vague sense of mys- 
tery when he set his lantern down upon the table, turn- 
ing the light upon the spot on which his work would 
stand. 

Then he took down the case and opened it and removed 
the model. 

“It will not be forgotten again,” he thought aloud. 
“ If it is to be finished, it will be finished here.” 

Half the night passed before he returned home. When 
he did so he went to his room and slept heavily until day- 
light. He had never slept as he slept in these nights, — 
heavy dreamless sleep, from which, at first, he used to 
awaken with a start and a perfectly blank sense of loss 
and dread, but which became, at last, unbroken. 

Night after night found him at his labor. It grew 
upon him ; he longed for it through the day ; he could 
not have broken from it if he would. 

Once, as he sat at his table, he fancied that he heard a 
lock click and afterward a stealthy footstep. It was a 


320 


“ HA WORTH'S: 


sound so faint and indistinct that his disbelief in its re« 
ality was immediate ; but he got up, taking his lantern 
with him, and went out to look at the entrance passage. 
It was empty and dark, and the door was shut and locked 
as he had left it. He went back to his work little dis- 
turbed. He had not really expected to find the traces 
of any presence in the place, but he had felt it best to 
make the matter safe. 

Perhaps the fact that once or twice on other nights the 
same light, indefinite sound fell upon his ear again, made 
him feel rather more secure than otherwise. Having ex- 
amined the place again and with the same result, it 
troubled him no more. He set it down to some ordinary 
material cause. 

After his first visit Haworth came into his room often. 
Why he came Murdoch did not understand very clearly. 
He did not come to talk ; sometimes he scarcely spoke at 
all. He was moody and abstracted. He went about the 
place wearing a hard and reckless look, utterly unlike 
any roughness and hardness he had shown before. The 
hands who had cared the least for his not altogether ill- 
natured tempests in days gone by shrank or were restive 
before him now. He drove all before him or passed 
through the rooms sullenly. It was plain to see that he 
was not the man he had been — that he had even lost 
strength, and was suddenly worn and broken, though 
neither flesh nor color had failed him. 

Among those who had made a lion of him he was more 
popular than ever. The fact that he had held out against 
ill luck when so many had gone down, was constantly 
quoted. The strikes which had kept up an uneven but 
prolonged struggle had been the ruin of many a manu- 
facturer who had thought he could battle any storm. 


A FOOTSTEP. 


321 


“ Haworth’s ” had held its own and weathered the 

worst. 

This was what the county potentates were fond of say- 
ing upon all occasions, — particularly when they wanted 
Haworth to dine with them at their houses. He used to 
accept their invitations and then go and sit at their din- 
ner-tables with a sardonic face. His humor, it was re- 
marked with some regret, was often of a sardonic kind. 
Occasionally he laughed at the wrong time, and his jokes 
were not always easy to smile under. It was also re- 
marked that Mr. Ffrench scarcely seemed comfortable 
upon these festive occasions. Of late he had not been in 
the enjoyment of good health. He explained that he 
suffered from nervous headaches and depression. His 
refined, well-molded face had become rather thin and 
fatigued-looking. He had lost his effusive eloquence. 
He often sat silent and started nervously when spoken 
to, but he did not eschew society at all, always going out 
upon any state occasion when his partner was to be a fea- 
ture of the feast. Once upon such an occasion he had 
said privately and with some plaintiveness to Haworth: 

“ I don’t think I can go to-night, my dear fellow. I 
really don’t feel quite equal to it.” 

“Blast you!” said Haworth, dispensing with social 
codes. “You’ll go whether you’re up to it or not. We’ll 
keep it up to the end. It’ll be over soon enough.” 

He evinced interest in the model, in his visits to the 
work-room, which seemed a little singular to Murdoch. 
He asked questions about it, and more than once re- 
peated his caution concerning its being “ kept close.” 

“ I’ve got it into my head that you’ll finish it some of 
these days,” he said once, “ if naught happens to it or 
you.” 


14 * 


CHAPTER XL VIII. 


FINISHED. 

One night, Murdoch, on leaving the house, said to 
Christian : 

“ Don’t expect me until morning. I may not be back 
until then. I think I shall work all night.” 

She did not ask him why. For several days she had 
seen that a singular mood was upon him, that he was rest- 
less. Sometimes, when he met her eye unexpectedly, he 
started and colored and turned away, as if he was a little 
afraid. She stood upon the step and watched him until 
he disappeared in the darkness, and then shut the door 
and went in to his mother. 

A quarter of an hour afterward he entered his work- 
room, and shut himself in and brought out the model. 

He sat looking at it a moment, and then stretched forth 
his hand to touch it. Suddenly he drew it back and let 
it fall heavily upon the table. “ Good Heavens ! ” he 
cried. “ Did he ever feel so near as this , and then fail 1 ” 
The shock was almost unbearable. “ Are there to be two 
of us ? ” he said. “ Was not one enough ? ” But he put 
forth his hand again a minute later, though his heart beat 
like a trip-hammer. “ It rests with me to prove it,” he 
said — “ with me / ” 

As he worked, the dead silence about him seemed to 
become more intense. His own breathing was a distinct 









































































































































FINISHED. 


323 


sound, light as it was ; the accidental dropping of a tool 
upon the table was a jar upon him ; the tolling of the 
church bell at midnight was unbearable. He even took 
out his watch and stopped it. But at length he knew 
neither sound nor stillness ; he forgot both. 

It had been a dark night, but the morning rose bright 
and clear. The sun, streaming in at the one window, fell 
upon the model, pushed far back upon the table, and on 
Murdoch himself, sitting with his forehead resting upon 
his hands. He had been sitting thus some time — he did 
not know how long. He had laid his last tool down be- 
fore the first streak of pink had struck across the gray 
sky. He was tired and chill with the morning air, but he 
had not thought of going home yet, or even quite recog- 
nized that the night was past. His lantern still burned 
beside him. He was roused at last by a sound in the 
outer room. The gates had not been unlocked nor the 
bell rung, but some one had come in. The next moment 
Haworth opened the door and stood in the threshold, 
looking in on him. 

“ You’ve been here all night,” he said. 

“Yes,” answered Murdoch. He turned a little and 
pointed to the model, speaking slowly, as if he were but 
half awake. 

“ I think,” he said, “ that it is complete.” 

He said it with so little appearance of emotion or ex- 
ultation that Haworth was dumbfounded. He laid a 
hand on his shoulder and shook him a little. 

“ Wake up, man ! ” he said. “ You’re dazed.” 

“No,” he answered, “not dazed. I’ve had time to 
think it over. It has been finished two or three hours.” 
All at once he burst into a laugh. “ I did not think,” he 
said, “ that it would be you I should tell the news to first.” 


324 


HA WORTH'S: 


Haworth sat down near him with a dogged face. 

“ Nay,” he replied, “ nor me either.” 

They sat and stared at each other for a moment in si- 
lence. Then Murdoch drew a long, wearied breath. 

“ But it is done,” he said, “ nevertheless.” 

After that he got up and began to make his prepara- 
tions to go home while Haworth sat and watched him. 

“ I shall want to go away,” he said. “ When I come 
back I shall know what the result is to be.” 

“ Start to-morrow morning,” said Haworth. “ And 
keep close. By the time you come back ” 

He stopped and left his chair, and the bell which called 
the hands to work began its hurried clanging. At the 
door he paused. 

u When shall you take it away ? ” he asked. 

“ To-night,” Murdoch answered. “ After dark.” 

At home he only told them one thing — that in the 
morning he was going to London and did not know when 
he should return. He did not go to the Works during 
the day, but remained at home trying to rest. But he 
could not sleep and the day seemed to lag heavily. In 
the afternoon he left the sofa on which he had lain 
through the morning and went out. He walked slowly 
through the town and at last turned down the lane which 
led to the Briarley’s cottage. He felt as if there would 
be a sort of relief to the tenseness of his mood in a brief 
interview with Janey. When he went into the house, 
Mr. Briarley was seated in Mrs. Dixon’s chair unscientifi- 
cally balancing his latest-born upon his knee. His aspect 
was grave and absorbed ; he was heated and disheveled 
with violent exertion ; the knot of his blue cotton necker- 
chief had twisted itself under his right ear in a painfully 
suggestive manner. Under some stress of circumstances 


FINISHED. 


325 


he had been suddenly pressed into service, and his mode 
of placating his offspring was at once unprofessional and 
productive of frantic excitement. 

But the moment he caught sight of Murdoch an alarm- 
ing change came upon him. His eyes opened to their 
fullest extent, his jaw fell and the color died out of his 
face. He rose hurriedly, dropped the youngest Briarley 
into his chair and darted out of the house, in such trepi- 
dation that his feet slipped under him when he reached 
the lower step, where he fell with a loud clatter of wooden 
clogs, scrambling up again with haste and difficulty and 
disappearing at once. 

Attracted by the disturbance, Janey darted in from the 
inner room barely in time to rescue the deserted young 
Briarley. 

“Wheer’s he gone?” she demanded, signifying her 
father. “ I towd her he wur na fit to be trusted ! Wheer’s 
he gone ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” Murdoch answered. “ I think he ran 
away because he saw me. What is the trouble ? ” 

“ Nay, dunnot ax me ! We canna mak’ him out, ney- 
ther mother nor me. He’s been settin’ i’ th’ house fur 
three days, as if he wur feart to stir out — settin’ by th’ 
fire an’ shakin’ his yed, an’ cry in’ ivvery now and then. 
An’ here’s her i’ th’ back room to wait on. A noice toime 
this is fur him to pick to go off in. He mowt ha’ waited 
till she wur done wi’.” 

As conversation naturally could not flourish under these 
circumstances, after a few minutes Murdoch took his 
leave. 

It seemed that he had not yet done with Mr Briarley. 
Passing through the gate, he caught sight of a forlorn fig- 
ure seated upon the road-side about twenty yards before 


326 


“HAWORTH'S: 


him, wearing a fustian jacket and a blue neck-cloth knotted 
under the ear. As he approached, Mr. JBriarley looked 
up, keeping his eyes fixed upon him in a despairing gaze, 
lie did not remove his glance at all, in fact, until Murdoch 
was within ten feet of him, when, for some entirely inex- 
plicable reason, he rose hurriedly and passed to the other 
side of the road, and at a distance of some yards ahead 
sat down, and stared wildly at him again. This singular 
course he pursued until they had reached the end of the 
lane, where he sat and watched Murdoch out of sight. 

“ I thowt,” he said, breathing with extreme shortness, 
“ as he ha’ done fur me. It wur a wonder as he did na. 
If I’d coom nigh him or he’d coom nigh me, they’d ha’ 
swore it wur me as did it an’s gone accordin’, if luck went 
ag’in ’em.” 

Then a sudden panic seemed to seize him. He pulled 
off his cap, and, holding it in both hands, stared into it as 
if in desperate protest against fate. A large tear fell into 
the crown, and then another and another. “ I canna help 
it,” he said, in a loud and sepulchral whisper. “Look 
out ! Look out ! ” 

And then, probably feeling that even in this he might 
be committing himself fatally, he got up, glanced fear- 
fully about him, and scuttled away. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 


“if aught’s for me, remember it.” 

Before he left the house at night, Murdoch had a brief 
interview with his mother. 

“ I am going to London as he went,” he said, — “ on the 
same errand. The end may be what it was before. I 
have felt very sure — but he was sure too.” 

“ Yes,” the woman answered, “ he was very sure.” 

“I don’t ask you to trust it — or me,” he said. “He 
gave a life to it. I have not given a year, and he was the 
better man, a thousand-fold. I,” he said, with a shadow 
falling on his face, “ have not proved myself as he did. 
He never faltered from the first.” 

“ Ho,” she said. “ Would to God he had ! ” 

But when he went, she followed him to the door and 
said the words she had refused him when he had first told 
her he had taken the burden upon his shoulders. 

“ God speed you ! ” she said. “ I will try to believe.” 

His plan was to go to his room, pack his case securely, 
and then carry it with him to the station in time to meet 
the late train he had decided on taking. 

He let himself into the Works as usual, and found his 
way along the passage in the darkness, though he carried 
his lantern. He knew his way so well that he did not 
need it there. But when he reached Haworth’s room and 
put out his hand to open the door, he stopped. His touch 


328 


“ HA WORTH'S: 


met no resistance, for the door was wide open. The dis- 
covery was so sharp a shock to him that for a few seconds 
he remained motionless. But he recovered himself in a 
second or so more. It might have been the result of care- 
lessness, after all ; so he turned on his light and went into 
his cell and began his task. It did not take him long. 
When he had finished, the wooden case was simply a 
solid square brown parcel which might have contained 
anything. lie glanced at his watch and sat down a min- 
ute or so. 

“ There is no use in going too early,” he said. And so he 
waited a little, thinking mechanically of the silence inside 
and the darkness out, and of the journey which lay before 
him. But at last he got up again and took his burden by 
the cord he had fastened about it. 

“ Now,” he said, “ it is time.” 

At the very moment the words left his lips there was a 
sound outside the door, and a rush upon him ; he was 
seized by the throat, flung backward into the chair he had 
left, and held there. He made no outcry. His first 
thought when he found himself clutched and overpowered 
was an incongruous one of Briarley sitting on the road- 
side and looking up at him in panic-stricken appeal. He 
understood in a flash what his terror had meant. 

The fellow who held him by the collar — there were 
three of them, and one was Reddy — shook him roughly. 

“ Wheer is it ? ” he said. " You know whatten we’ve 
coom for, my lad.” 

Murdoch was conscious of a little chill which passed 
over him, but otherwise he could only wonder at his own 
lack of excitement. No better place to finish a man than 
such a one as this at dead of night, and there was not one 
of the three who had not evil in his eye ; but he spoke 


“IF AUGHT'S FOR ME, REMEMBER IT." 329 

without a tremor in his voice, — with the calmness of being 
utterly without stay or help. 

u Yes, I suppose I know,” he said. “ You came to me 
for it before. What are you going to do with it ? ” 

“ Smash it to h ,” said one, concisely, “ an’ thee 

too.” 

It was not a pleasant thing to hear by the half light of 
a lantern in a place so deadly still. Murdoch felt the lit- 
tle chill again, but he remembered that after all he had 
one slender chance if he could make them listen. 

“ You are making a blunder,” he began. 

Reddy stopped him by addressing his comrades. 

“ What art tha stondin’ hearkenin’ to him fur ? ” he de- 
manded. “ Smack him i’ th’ mouth an’ stop him.” 

Murdoch gave a lurch forward which it gave his captor 
some trouble to restrain. lie turned dangerously white 
and his eye blazed. 

“ If you do, you devil,” he panted, “ I’ll murder 
you.” 

“ Wheer is th’ thing we coom fur ? ” said the first man. 
And then he caught sight of the package, which had fall- 
en upon the floor. 

“ Happen it’s i’ theer,” he suggested. “ Oppen it, 
chaps.” 

Then all at once Murdoch’s calmness was gone. He 
shook in their grasp. 

“ For God’s sake ! ” he cried, “ don’t touch it ! Don’t 
do it a harm ! It’s a mistake. It has nothing to do with 
your trade. It would be no hurt to you if it were known 
to the whole world. For God’s sake, believe me ! ” 

“ We’ve heerd a different mak’ o’ tale fro’ that,” said 
Reddy, laughing. 

a It’s a lie — a lie ! Who told it ? ” 


330 


“ HA WORTH'S. 


“Jem Haworth,” he was answered. “Jem Haworth, 
as it wur made fur.” 

He began to straggle with all his strength. He cried 
out aloud and sprang up and broke loose and fought with 
the force of madness. 

“ You shall pay for it,” he shrieked, and three to one 
as they were, he held them for a moment at bay. 

“ Gi’ him th’ knob-stick ! ” cried one. “ At him wi’ 
it!” 

It was Eeddy who aimed the blow at him, — a blow that 
would have laid him a dead man among them, — but it 
never fell, for he sprang forward with a mighty effort 
and struck the bludgeon upward, and as it fell with a 
crash at the opposite side of the room, they heard, even 
above the tumult of their struggle, a rush of heavy feet, a 
voice every man among them knew, and the sound they 
most dreaded — the sharp report of a pistol. 

“ It’s Haworth ! ” they shouted. “ Haworth ! ” And 
they made a dash at the door in a body, stumbling over 
one another, striking and cursing, and the scoundrel who 
first got through and away was counted a lucky man. 

Murdoch took a step forward and fell — so close to the 
model that his helpless hand touched it as it lay. 

It was not long before he returned to consciousness. 
His sudden loss of strength had only been a sort of climax 
body and mind had reached together. When he opened 
his eyes again, his first thought was a wonder at himself 
and a vague effort to comprehend his weakness. He 
looked up at Haworth, who bent over him. 

“ Lie still a bit, lad,” he heard him say. “ Lie and rest 
thee.” 

He no sooner heard his voice than he forgot his weak 



IT WAS REDDY WHO AIMED THE BLOW. 



















































. 













































' 
r 





















“ IF AUGHT' 8 FOR ME , REMEMBER IT . ” 331 

wonder at himself in a stronger wonder at him. He was 
ashen pale and a tremor shook him as he spoke. 

“ Lie still and rest thee,” he repeated, and he touched 
his head with an approach to gentleness. 

“ They thought there was more than me,” he said. 
“And they’re not fond of powder and lead. They’re 
better used to knobsticks and vitriol in the dark.” 

“ They meant to murder me,” said Murdoch. 

“Aye, make sure o’ that. They weren’t for play. 
They’ve had their minds on this for a month or two. If 
I’d been a minute later ” 

He did not finish. A queer spasm of the throat stopped 
him. 

He rose the next instant and struck a match and turned 
the gas on to full blaze. 

“ Let’s have light,” he said. “ Theer’s a look about th’ 
place I can’t stand.” 

His eyes were blood-shot, his face looked gray and 
deeply lined and his lips were parched. There was a new 
haggardness upon him and he was conscious of it and 
tried to bear it down with his old bravado. 

“ They’ll not come back,” he said. “ They’ve had 
enough for to-night. If they’d known I was alone they’d 
have made a stand for it. They think they were in luck 
to get off.” 

He came back and sat down. 

“ They laid their plans better than I thought,” he added. 
“ They got over me for once, devil take ’em. How art 
tha now, lad ? ” 

Murdoch made the effort to rise and succeeded, though 
he was not very strong upon his feet, and sank into a 
chair feeling a little irritated at his own weakness. 

“ Giddy,” he answered, “ and a trifle faint. It’s a 


332 


“HAWORTH'S. 


queer business. I went down as if Fd been shot. I have 
an hour and a half to steady myself before the next train 
comes in. Let me make the best of it.” 

“ You’ll go to-night ? ” said Haworth. 

“ There’s a stronger reason than ever that I should go,” 
he answered. “ Let me get it out of the way and safe, 
for heaven’s sake ! ’’ 

Haworth squared his arms upon the table and leaned 
on them. 

“ Then,” he said, “ I’ve got an hour and a half to make 
a clean breast of it.” 

He said it almost with a swagger, and yet his voice was 
hoarse, and his coolness a miserable pretense. 

“ Ask me,” he said, “ how 1 came here ! ” 

And not waiting for a reply even while Murdoch gazed 
at him bewildered, he answered the question himself. 

“ I come,” he said, “ for a good reason, — for the same 
reason that’s brought me here every night you’ve been at 
work.” 

Murdoch repeated his last words mechanically. He 
was not quite sure the man was himself. 

“ Every night I’ve been at work ? ” 

“ Aye, every one on ’em ! There’s not been a night 
I’ve not been nigh you and ready.” 

A memory flashed across Murdoch’s mind with start- 
ling force. 

“ It was you I heard come in ? ” he cried. “ It was not 
fancy.” 

“ Aye, it was me.” 

There was a moment’s silence between them in which 
Murdoch thought with feverish rapidity. 

“ It was you,” he said with some bitterness at last, — 
“ you who set the plot on foot ? ” 


“IF AUGHT 'S FOR ME , REMEMBER IT A 333 

“ Aye, it was me.” 

“ I could have done the job I wanted to do in a quicker 
way,” he went on, after a second’s pause, “ but that wasn’t 
my humor. I’d a mind to keep out of it myself, and I 
knew how to set the chaps on as would do it in their own 
way.” 

“ What do you mean by ‘ it ’ ? ” cried Murdoch. 
“ Were you devil enough to mean to have my blood ? ” 

“ Aye, — while I was in the humor,— that and worse.” 
Murdoch sprang up and began to pace the room. His 
strength had come back to him with the fierce sense of 
repulsion which seized him. 

“ It’s a blacker world than I thought,” he said. “We 
were friends once — friends ! ” 
tc So we were,” he said, hoarsely. “ You were the first 
chap I ever made friends with, and you’ll be the last. 
It’s brought no good to either of us. ” 

“ It might,” returned Murdoch, “ if ” 

“Let me finish my tale,” he said, even doggedly. “I 
said to myself before I came you should hear it. I swore 
I’d stop at naught, and I kept my word. I sowed a seed 
here and there, and th’ soil was just right for it. They 
were in the mood to hearken to aught, and they hearkened. 
But there came a time when I found out that things were 
worse with you than with me, and had gone harder with 
you. If you’d won where I lost it would have been dif- 
ferent, but you lost most of the two — you’d the most to 
lose — and I changed my mind.” 

He stopped a second and looked at Murdoch, who had 
come back and thrown himself into his chair again. 

“ I’ve said many a time that you were a queer chap,” he 
went on, as if half dubious of himself. “ You are a queer 
chap. At th’ start you got a hold on me, and when I 


334 


“HAWORTH'S: 


changed my mind you got a hold on me again. I swore 
I’d undo what I’d done, if I could. I knew if the thing 
was finished and you got away with it they’d soon find 
out it was naught they need fret about, so I swore to see 
you safe through. I gave you the keys to come here to 
work, and every night I came and waited until you’d 
done and gone away. I brought my pistols with me and 
kept a sharp lookout. To-night I was late and they’d 
laid their plans and got here before me. There’s th’ be- 
ginning and there’s th’ end.” 

“You saved my life,” said Murdoch. “Let me re- 
member that.” 

“ I changed my mind and swore to undo what I’d done. 
There’s naught for me in that, my lad, and plenty to go 
agen me.” 

After a little he pushed his chair back. 

“ The time’s not up,” he said. “ I’ve made short work 
of it. Pick up thy traps and we’ll go over th’ place 
together and see that it’s safe.” 

He led the way, carrying the lantern, and Murdoch 
followed him. They went from one end of the place to 
the other and found all quiet ; the bars of a small lower 
window had been filed and wrenched out of place, Mr. 
Reddy and his friends having made their entrance 
through it. 

“ They’ve been on the lookout many a night before 
they made up their minds,” said Haworth. “ And they 
chose the right place to try.” 

Afterward they went out together, locking the door and 
the iron gates behind them, and went down in company 
to the dark little station with its dim, twinkling 
lights. 

Naturally they did not talk very freely. Now and 


“IF AUGHT'S FOR ME , REMEMBER IT." 335 

then there was a blank silence of many minutes between 
them. 

But at last the train thundered its way in and stopped, 
and there was a feeble bustle to and fro among the 
sleepy officials and an opening and shutting and locking 
of doors. 

When Murdoch got into his empty compartment, Ha- 
worth stood at its step. At the very last he spoke in a 
strange hurry : 

“ When you come back,” he said, “ when you come 
back — perhaps ” 

There was a porter passing with a lantern, which 
struck upon his face and showed it plainly. He shrank 
back a moment as if he feared the light ; but when it was 
gone he drew near again and spoke through the window. 

“ If there’s aught in what’s gone by that’s for me,” he 
said, “ remember it.” 

And with a gesture of farewell, he turned away and 
was gone. 


CHAPTER L. 


AN AFTER-DINNER SPEECH. 

At dinner the next evening Mr. Ffrench had a story 
to tell. It was the rather exciting story of the comple- 
tion of Murdoch’s labor, the night attack and his sudden 
departure. Exciting as it was, however, Mr. Ffrench did 
not relate it in his most vivid manner. His nervous ail- 
ments had increased of late, and he was not in a condi- 
tion to be vivacious and dramatic. The incident came 
from him rather tamely, upon the whole. 

“ If it is the success he thinks it is,” he terminated, “ he 
is a made man — and he is not the fellow to deceive him- 
self. Well,” he said, rather drearily, “I have said it 
would be so.” 

As Haworth had foreseen, Saint Meran appeared upon 
the scene again. He was present when the story was told, 
and was much interested in it as a dramatic incident 
bringing the peculiarities of the manufacturing class of 
Broxton into strong play. 

“ If they had murdered him,” he remarked with criti- 
cal niceness, “ it would have been the most tragic of trag- 
edies. On the very eve of his life’s success. A tragedy 
indeed ! And it is not bad either that it should have 
been his master who saved him.” 

“ Why do you say master ? ” said Miss Ffrench, coldly. 

“ Pardon me. I thought ” 


AN AFTER-DINNER SPEECH. 


337 


Mr. Ffrench interposed in some burry. 

u Oh, he has always been such an uncommon young fel- 
low that we have scarcely thought of him as a servant. 
He has not been exactly a servant in fact.” 

“ Ah ! ” replied Saint Meran. “ I ask pardon again.” 

He had been not a little bewildered at the change 
he found in the household. Mr. Ffrench no longer ex- 
pounded his view r s at length with refined vigor. He fre- 
quently excused himself from the family circle on plea of 
severe indisposition, and at other times he sat in singular 
and depressing silence. He was evidently ill ; there were 
lines upon his forehead and circles about his eyes; he 
had a perturbed air and started without any apparent 
cause. A change showed itself in Miss Ffrench also, — so 
subtle as not to be easily described. It was a change 
which was not pallor nor fragility. It was an alteration 
which baffled him and yet forced him to recognize its 
presence constantly, and to endeavor to comprehend it. 
Ffrench himself had seen it and pondered over it in se- 
cret. When he sat in his private room at the Bank, be- 
wildered and terrified even by the mere effort to think 
and face the future, his burden was not a little increased 
by his remembrance of his hours at home. More than all 
the rest he shrank from the day of reckoning with his 
daughter. He had confronted Haworth and borne the 
worst of his wrath. The account of himself which he 
must render to her would be the most scathing ordeal of 
his life. 

“ Some women would pity me,” he said to himself, 
“ but she will not.” 

Truth to tell, he looked forward pathetically to the pos- 
sibility that hereafter their paths might lie apart. Fate 
had saved him one fearful responsibility, at least. Her 
15 


338 


“HAWORTH'S. 


private fortune had been beyond his reach and she would 
still be a rich woman even when the worst came. He 
could live on very little, he told himself, and there was 
always some hope for a man of resources. He still be- 
lieved somewhat, though rather vaguely, in his re- 
sources. 

A few days after Murdoch’s departure there came to 
Broxton, on a visit of inspection, a dignitary of great 
magnitude — a political economist, a Member of Parlia- 
ment. Above all other things he was absorbed in the 
fortunes of the manufacturing districts. He had done 
the trades-unions the honor of weighing their cause and 
reasoning with them ; he had parleyed with the strikers 
and held meetings with the masters. He had heard of 
Haworth and his extraordinary stand against the out- 
break, and was curious to see him. 

He came as the guest of one of the county families, 
who regarded Haworth and his success a subject worth 
enlarging upon. He was taken to the Works and pre- 
sented to their master. Haworth met him with little 
enthusiasm. He showed him over the place, but main- 
tained his taciturnity. He was not even moved to any 
exhibition of gratitude on being told that he had done 
wonders. 

The finale of the visit was a stately dinner given by 
the county family. Haworth and the member were the 
features of the festivity, and speeches were made which 
took a congratulatory and even a laudatory turn. 

“ I can’t go,” Ffrench cried, piteously, when Haworth 
came to his room at the Bank with the news. He turned 
quite white and sank back into his chair. “ It is too much 
to ask. I — no. I am not strong enough.” 

He felt himself as good as a dead man when Haworth 


AN AFTER-DINNER SPEECH. 


339 


turned about and strode up to him, livid, and opening and 
shutting his hands. 

“ Blast you % ” he hissed through his teeth. “ You did 
it ! You ! And you shall pay for it as long as I’m nigh 
to make you ! ” 

Saint Meran was among the guests, and Miss Ffrench, 
whose wonderful beauty attracted the dignitary’s eye at 
once. Years after he remembered and spoke of her. He 
glanced toward her when he rose to make his after-dinner 
speech, and caught her eye, and was somewhat confused 
by it. But he was very eloquent. The master of “ Ha- 
worth’s ” was his inspiration and text. His resources, his 
strength of will, his giant enterprises, his readiness and 
daring at the moment when all was at hazard— these were 
matters, indeed, for eloquence. 

Haworth sat leaning forward upon the table. He 
played with his wine-glass, turning it round and round 
and not spilling a drop of the ruby liquid. Sometimes he 
glanced at the orator with a smile which no one exactly 
understood, oftener he kept his eyes fixed upon the full 
wine-glass. 

When at length the speaker sat down with a swift final 
glance at Kachel Ffrench, there was a silence of several 
seconds. Everybody felt that a reply was needed. Ha- 
worth turned his wine-glass two or three times without 
raising his eyes, but at last, just as the pause was becoming 
embarrassing, he looked across the table at Ffrench, who 
sat opposite. 

“ I’m not a speech-making chap myself,” he said. “ My 
partner is. He’ll say my say for me.” 

He gave Ffrench a nod. That gentleman had been 
pale and distracted through all the courses ; now he be- 
came paler than ever. He hesitated, glanced around him, 


340 


“ HA WORTH'S.' 


at the waiting guest and at Haworth (who nodded again), 
and then rose. 

It was something unusual that Mr. Ffrench should hang 
back and show himself unready. He began his speech of 
thanks in his partner’s name falteringly and as if at a loss 
for the commonest forms of expression ; he replied to the 
member’s compliments with hesitation ; he spoke of the 
difficulties they had encountered with a visibly strong 
effort, he touched upon their success and triumph with 
such singular lack of exultation that those who listened 
began to exchange looks of questioning; and suddenly, in 
the midst of his wanderings and struggles at recovering 
himself, he broke off and begged leave to sit down. 

“ I am ill,” he said. “ I have — been — indisposed for 
some time. I must crave your pardon, and — and my part- 
ner’s for my inability to say what — what I would wish.” 

He sat down amid many expressions of sympathy. The 
plea accounted for his unusual demeanor, it was thought. 
The member himself sought an interview with him, in 
which he expressed his regret and his sense of the fact that 
nothing was more natural than that the result of so long bear- 
ing a weight of responsibility should be a strain upon the 
nervous system and a consequent loss of physical strength. 

“ You must care for yourself, my dear sir,” he added. 
“ Your firm — nay, the country — cannot afford to lose an 
element like yourself at such a crisis.” 

On the morning following, the member left Broxton. 
On his way to the station he was moved to pay a final visit 
to Haworth at the Works. 

“ I congratulate you,” he said, with much warmth on 
shaking hands with him. u I congratulate England upon 
your determination and indomitable courage, and upon 
your wonderful success.” 


AN AFTER-DINNER SPEECH. 


341 


There was a good deal of talk about Murdoch during 
his absence. The story of the attack and of Haworth’s 
repulse of the attacking party became a popular incident. 
Mr. Reddy and his companions disappeared from the 
scene with promptness. Much interest was manifested in 
the ultimate success of the model, which had previously 
been regarded with a mingling of indifference and disfavor 
as not “ loike to coom to owt.” The results of its agree- 
ably disappointing people by “ coming to owt ” were esti- 
mated at nothing short of a million per annum. 

“ Th’ chap’ll roll i’ brass,” it was said. “ Haworth’ll 
be nowheer. Happen th’ lad’ll coom back an’ set up a 
Works agen him. An’ he coom here nowt but a workin’ 
chap a few year sin’ ! ” 

The two women in the little house in the narrow street 
heard the story of the attack only through report. They 
had no letters. 

“ I won’t write,” Murdoch had said. “ You shall not 
be troubled by prospects that might end in nothing. 
You will hear nothing from me till I come and tell you 
with my own lips that I have won or failed.” 

In the days of waiting Christian proved her strength. 
She would not let her belief be beaten or weighed down. 
She clung to it in spite of what she saw hour by hour in 
the face of the woman who was her companion. 

“ I have lived through it before.” 

It was not put into words, but she read it in her eyes 
and believed in spite of it. 

He had been away two weeks, and he returned as his 
father had done, at night. 

The women were sitting together in the little inner 
room. They were not talking or working, though each 


342 


u HA WORTH'S. 


had work in her hands. It was Christian who heard him 
first. She threw down her work and stood up. 

“ He is here,” she cried. “ He is coming up the step.” 
She was out in the narrow entry and had thrown the 
door open before he had time to open it with his key. 

The light fell upon his dark pale face and showed a 
strange excitement in it. He was disheveled and travel- 
worn, but his eyes were bright. His first words were 
enough. 

“ It is all right,” he said, in an exultant voice. “ It is 
a success. Where is my mother ? ” 

He had taken her hand as if without knowing what he 
did and fairly dragged her into the room. His mother 
had risen and stood waiting. 

“ It is a success,” he cried out to her. “ It is what he 
meant it to be — I have finished his work ! ” 

She turned from him to the girl, uttering a low cry of 
appeal. 

“ Christian ! ” she said. “ Christian ! ” 

The girl vrent to her and made her sit down, and knelt 
before her, clasping her arms about her waist, and uplift- 
ing her glowing young face. At the moment her beauty 
became such a splendor that Murdoch himself saw it with 
wonder. 

“ It is finished,” she said. u And it is he who has fin- 
ished it ! Is not that enough ? ” 

“ Yes,” she answered, “ but — but ” 

And the words died upon her lips, and she sat looking 
before her into vacancy, and trembling. 

Murdoch threw himself on the sofa and lay there, his 
hands clasped above his head. 

“ I shall be a rich man,” he said, as if to himself, “ a 
rich man — and it is nothing— but it is done.” 


CHAPTER LI. 

“ th’ on’y one as is na a foo’ ! ” 

The next day all Broxton knew the story. 

“Well, he wur na so soft after aw,” more than one ex- 
cellent matron remarked. 

Mr. Ffrench heard the news from his valet in the 
morning. He had been very unwell for several days. 
He had eaten nothing and slept very little and had been 
obliged to call in his physician, who pronounced his case 
the result of too great mental strain, and prescribed rest. 
He came down to breakfast with an unwholesome face 
and trifled with his food without eating it. He glanced 
furtively at Rachel again and again. 

“ I shall not go to the Bank to-day,” he said timorously 
at last. “ I am worse than ever. I shall remain at home 
and try to write letters and rest. Are — are you going 
out ? ” 

“ Yes,” she answered. 

“ Oh.” Then, after a pause, he said, “ I saw Briarley 
yesterday, and he said Mrs. Dixon was very ill. You 
sometimes go there, I believe ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

u Suppose — suppose you call this morning to inquire. 
It looks well to show a — a sort of interest in them. You 
might take something nourishing with you.” 

He flinched when she raised her eyes and let them rest 


344 


“HAWORTU'8:' 


a moment upon him. Her look was strongly suggestive 
of the fact that she could better rely upon the result of 
her own cumulations concerning him than upon the truth 
of his replies, if she deigned to ask him questions. 

“I thought,” he faltered, “that it would look well to 
evince some interest, as the man has been in our employ, 
and you have had the woman about the house.” 

“ Certainly,” she replied, “ it would be well enough. 
I will go.” 

After breakfast she ordered the carriage and went to 
her room and made her toilette with some care. Why she 
did so was best known to herself. Nothing is more cer- 
tain than that she scarcely expected to produce a great 
effect upon Granny Dixon. The truth was, she would 
have made her visit to the Briarley’s in any case, and was 
not in the least moved thereto by her father’s unexpected 
anxiety. 

But when she reached the cottage and entered it, she 
began immediately to repent having come. A neighbor 
woman sat nursing the youngest Briarley; there was a 
peculiar hush upon the house and the windows were dark- 
ened. She drew back with a feeling of alarm and annoy- 
ance. 

“ What is the matter ? ” she demanded impatiently of 
the woman. “ Why have you darkened the room % ” 

“ Th’ owd lass is deein,” was the business-like answer, 
“ an’ they’re ha’ in’ some trouble wi’ her. She conna even 
dee loike other foak .” 

She drew back, her annoyance becoming violent repul- 
sion. She turned pale, and her heart began to beat vio- 
lently. She knew nothing of death, and was not fearless 
of it. Her inveterate calm failed her in thus being 
brought near it 


“ TE ’ ON'Y ONE AS IS NA A FOO' ! 


345 


“ I will go away,” she said. 

And she would have gone, but at that moment there 
arose a sound of voices in the inner room — Mrs. Briarley’s 
and Janey’s, and above theirs Granny Dixon’s, brokenly, 
and yet with what seemed terrible loudness in the hush 
of the house. 

“ Bring her i’ here ! ” she was saying. “ Bring her i’ 
here an’ mak’ her — do it ! ” 

And then out came Mrs. Briarley, looking fagged and 
harassed. 

“ I ax thy pardon, Miss,” she said, “ but she says she 
wants thee. She says she wants thee to be a witness to 
summat.” 

“ I will not go,” she replied. “ I — I am going away. 
I — never saw any one before — in that condition.” 

But the terrible voice raised itself again, and, despite 
her terror and anger, held and controlled her. 

“ I see her ! ” it cried. “ Mak’ her coom in. I knowed 
her gran’fey ther — when I wur a lass — seventy year ago ! ” 

“ She will na harm thee,” said Mrs. Briarley. And 
partly because of a dread fascination, and partly because 
the two women regarded her with such amazement, she 
found herself forced to give way and enter. 

It was a small room, and dark and low. The bed was 
a huge four-poster which had belonged to Granny Dixon 
herself in her young days. The large-flowered patterns 
of its chintz hangings were faded with many washings. 

Of the woman lying upon it there was little left but 
skin and bone. She seemed all eyes and voice — eyes 
which stared and shone in the gloom, and voice which 
broke upon the silence with an awesome power. 

“ She’s been speaking awmost i’ a whisper till to-day,” 
explained Mrs. Briarley, under her breath, “an’ aw at 
15 * 


346 


“ HA WORTHS. 


onct th’ change set in, an’ it coom back as loud as 
ivver.” 

She lifted her hands, beckoning with crooked fingers. 

“ Coom tlia here,” she commanded. 

Rachel Ffrench went to her slowly. She had no color 
left, and all her hauteur could not steady her voice. 

“ What do you want ? ” she asked, standing close beside 
the bed. 

For a few seconds there was silence, in which the large 
eyes wandered from the border of her rich dress to the 
crown of her hair. Then Granny Dixon spoke out : 

“ Wheer’st flower ? ” she cried. “ Tha’st getten it on 
thee again. I con smell it.” 

It was true that she wore it at her throat as she had 
done before. A panic of disgust took possession of her 
as she recollected it. It was as if they two were somehow 
bound together by it. She caught at it with tremulous 
fingers, and would have flung it away, but it fell from her 
uncertain clasp upon the bed, and she would not have 
touched it for worlds. 

“ Gi’ it to me ! ” commanded Granny Dixon. 

“ Pick it up for her,” she said, turning to Mrs. Briarley, 
and it was done, and the shrivelled fingers held it and the 
old eye devoured it. 

“ He used to wear ’em i’ his button-hole,” proclaimed 
the Voice, “an’ he wur a han’some chap — seventy year 
ago.” 

“ Did you send for me to tell me that?” demanded Ra- 
chel Ffrench. 

Granny Dixon turned on her pile of pillows. 

“ Hay,” she said, “ an’ I’m — forgettin’.” 

There was a gasp between the two last words, as if sud- 
denly her strength was failing her. 


“ TH ’ ON y Y ONE AS IS NA A FOO'f 


347 


“ Get thee a pen — an 5 — an’ write summat,” she ordered. 

“Get it quickly,” said Rachel Ffrench, “and let me 
humor her and go.” 

She noticed the little gap between the words herself, 
and the next instant saw a faint gray pallor spread itself 
over the old woman’s face. 

“ Get the pen and paper,” she repeated, “ and call in 
the woman.” 

They brought her the pen and paper and called the 
woman, who came in stolidly, ready for any emergency. 
Then they waited for commands, but for several seconds 
there was a dead pause, and Granny Dixon lay back, star- 
ing straight before her. 

“Quick!” said Rachel Ffrench. “What do you 
want ? ” 

Granny Dixon rose by a great effort upright from her 
pillows. She pointed to Mrs. Briarley with the sharp, 
bony fore-finger. 

“ 1 — leave it — aw — to her” she proclaimed, “ — ivvery 
penny ! She’s th’ ony one among ’em as is na a foo’ ! ” 

And then she fell back, and panted and stared again. 

Mrs. Briarley lifted her apron and burst into tears. 

“ She means th’ brass,” she wailed. “ Eh ! Poor owd 
¥ass, who’d ha’ thowt it ! ” 

“ Do you mean,” asked Rachel Ffrench, “ that you wish 
her to have your money ? ” 

A nod was the answer, and Mrs. Briarley shed sympa- 
thetic tears again. Here was a reward for her labors in- 
deed. 

What she wrote Miss Ffrench scarcely knew. In the 
end there was her own name signed below, and a black, 
scrawling mark from Granny Dixon’s hand. The woman 
who had come in made her mark also. 


348 


“HAWORTH'S. 


“Mak’ a black un,” said the testatrix. “Let’s ha’ it 
plain.” 

Then, turning to Rachel : 

“Does ta want to know wheer th’ money come fro’? 
Fro’ Will Ffrench — fro’ him. He wur one o’ th’ gentry 
when aw wur said an’ done — an’ I wur a han’some 
lass.” 

When it was done they all stood and looked at each 
other. Granny Dixon lay back upon her pillows, drawing 
sharp breaths. She was looking only at Rachel Ffrench. 
She seemed to have forgotten all the rest of them, and 
what she had been doing. All that was left of the Voice 
was a loud, halting whisper. 

“ Wheer’s th’ flower ? ” she said. “ I conna smell it.” 

It was in her hand. 

Rachel Ffrench drew back. 

“ Let me go,” she said to Mrs. Briarley. “I cannot stay 
here.” 

“He used to wear ’em i’ his button -hole,” she heard, 
“ — seventy year ago — an’ she’s th’ very moral on him.” 
And scarcely knowing how, she made her way past the 
women, and out of the house and into the fresh air and 
sunshine. 

“ Drive home,” she said to the coachman, “ as quickly as 
possible.” 

She leaned back in a corner of the carriage shuddering. 
Suddenly she burst into wild tears. 

But there were no traces of her excitement when she 
reached home. She descended from the carriage looking 
quite herself, and after dismissing it went up to her own 
room. 

About half an hour later she came down and went into 
the library. Her father was not there, and on inquiring 


TE ’ ON'Y ONE AS IS NA A FOO ’ / 


349 


as to his whereabouts from a servant passing the open door, 
she was told that he had gone out. 

He had been writing letters, it was evident. His chair 
stood before his desk, and there was an addressed envelope 
lying upon it. 

She went to the desk and glanced at it without any spe- 
cial motive for doing so. It was addressed to herself. 
She opened and read it. 

“ My dear Rachel,” it ran. “ In all probability we shall 
not meet again for some time. I find myself utterly un- 
able to remain to meet the blow which must inevitably 
fall before many days are over. The anxiety of the past 
year has made me a coward. I ask your forgiveness for 
what you may call my desertion of you. We have never 
relied upon each other much, and you at least are not in- 
cluded in my ruin. You will not be called upon to share 
my poverty. You had better return to Paris at once. 
With a faint hope that you will at least pity me, 

I remain, 

Your affectionate father, 

Gerard Ffrench.” 


CHAPTER LII. 

a HA WORTH’S IS DONE WITH.” 


Almost at the same moment, Haworth was reading, in 
his room at the Works, the letter which had been left for 
himself. 

“ I have borne as much as I can bear,” it ended. “ Mj 
punishment for my folly is that I am a ruined man and a 
fugitive. My presence upon the scene, when the climax 
comes, would be of no benefit to either of us. Pardon 
me, if you can, for the wrong I have unintentionally done 
you. My ill-luck was sheerly the result of circumstances. 
Even yet, I cannot help thinking that there were great 
possibilities in my plans. But you will not believe this 
and I will say no more. 

In haste, 

Ffrench.” 

When Rachel Ffrench finished reading her note she 
lighted a taper and held the paper to it until it was re- 
duced to ashes, and afterward turned away merely a shade 
paler and colder than before. Haworth having finished 
the reading of Ffrench’s letter, sat for a few seconds star- 
ing down at it as it lay before him on the table. Then he 
burst into a brutal laugh. 

After that, he sat stupefied — his elbows on the table, 
his head on his hands. He did not move for half an hour. 


“ HA WORTH' 8 IS DONE WITH. 


351 


The Works saw very little of him during the day. He 
remained alone in his room, not showing himself, and one 
of the head clerks, coming in from the Bank on business, 
went back mystified, and remarked in confidence to a 
companion that “ things had a queer look.” 

He did not leave the Works until late, and then went 
home. All through the evening his mother watched him 
in her old tender way. She tried to interest him with her 
history of the Briarley’s bereavement and unexpected 
good fortune. She shed tears over her recital. 

“ So old, my dear,” she said. “ Old enough to have 
outlived her own, — an’ her ways a little hard,” wiping 
her eyes. “ I’d like to be grieved for more, Jem — though 
perhaps it’s only nat’ral as it should be so. She hadn’t 
no son to miss her as you’ll miss me. 1 shouldn’t like to 
be the last, Jem.” 

He had been listening mechanically and he started and 
turned to her. 

“ The last ? ” he said. “ Aye, it’s a bit hard.” 

It was as if she had suggested a new thought to him of 
which he could not rid himself at once. He kept looking 
at her, his eyes wandering over her frail little figure and 
innocent old face, restlessly. 

“ But I haven’t no fear,” she went on, “though we 
never know what’s to come. But you’re a strong man, 
and there’s not like to be many more years for me — 
though I’m so well an’ happy.” 

u You might live a score,” he answered in an abstracted 
way, his eyes still fixed on her. 

“ Not without you,” she returned. “ It’s you that’s life 
to me — an’ strength— an’ peace.” The innocent tears 
were in her voice again, and her eyes were bright with 
them. 


352 


“HAWORTH'S: 


He lay down awhile but could not lie still. He got up 
and came and stood near her and talked and then moved 
here and there, picking up one thing and another, holding 
them idly for a few seconds and then setting them aside. 
At last she was going to bed and came to bid him good- 
night. He laid his hand on her shoulder caressingly. 

“ There’s never been aught like trouble between us 
two,” he said. “ I’ve been a quiet enough chap, and dif- 
ferent somehow — when I’ve been nigh you. What I’ve 
done, I’ve done for your sake and for the best.” 

In the morning the Works were closed, the doors of the 
Bank remained unopened, and the news spread like wild- 
fire from house to house and from street to street and be- 
yond the limits of the town — until before noon it was 
known through the whole country side that Ffrench had 
fled and Jem Haworth was a ruined man. 

It reached the public ear in the first instance in the 
ordinary commonplace manner through the individuals 
who had suddenly descended upon the place to take pos- 
session. A great crowd gathered about the closed gates 
and murmured and stared and anathematized. 

“ Theer’s been summat up for mony a month,” said one 
sage. “ I’ve seed it. He wur na hissen, wur na Ha- 
worth.” 

“Nay,” said another, “that he wur na. Th’ chap has 
na been o’ a decent spree sin’ Ffrench coom.” 

“ Happen,” added a third, “ that wur what started him 
on th’ road downhill. A chap is na good fur much as has 
na reg’lar habits.” 

“ Aye, an’ Haworth wur reg’lar enow when he set up. 
Good Lord ! who’d ha’ tliowt o’ that chap i’ bankrup’cy ! ” 

At the outset the feeling manifested was not unamiable 


“HAWORTH'S IS DONE WITH. 


353 


to Haworth, but it was not very long before the closing of 
the Bank dawned upon the public in a new light. It 
meant loss and ruin. The first man who roused the 
tumult was a burly farmer who dashed into the town on a 
sweating horse, spurring it as he rode and wearing a red 
and furious face. He left his horse at an inn and came 
down to the Bank, booted and spurred and whip in 
hand. 

“ Wheer’s Ff rench % ” he shouted to the smaller crowd 
attracted there, and whose views as to the ultimate settle- 
ment of things were extremely vague. “ Wheer’s Ffrench 
an’ wheer’s Haworth ? ” 

Half a dozen voices volunteered information regarding 
Ffrench, but no one knew anything of Haworth. He 
might be in a dozen places, but no one had yet seen him 
or heard of his whereabouts. The man began to push his 
way toward the building, swearing hotly. He mounted 
the steps and struck violently on the door with his whip. 

u I’ll mak’ him hear if he’s shut hissen i’ here,” he cried. 
“ Th’ shifty villain’s got ivvery shillin’ o’ brass I’ve been 
savin’ for my little wench for th’ last ten year. I’ll ha’ it 
back, if it’s to be gotten.” 

“ Tha’lt ne’er see it again,” shouted a voice in the crowd. 
“ Tha’dst better ha’ stuck to th’ owd stockin’, lad.” 

Then the uproar began. One luckless depositor after 
another was added to the crowd. They might easily be 
known among the rest by their pale faces. Some of them 
were stunned into silence, but the greater portion of them 
were loud and passionate in their outcry. A few women 
hung on the outskirts, wiping their eyes every now and 
then with their aprons, and sometimes bursting into audi- 
ble fits of weeping. 

“ I’ve been goin’ out charrin’ for four year,” said one, 


354 


“ HA WORTH'S. 


“ to buy silks an’ satins fur th’ gentry. Yo’ nivver seed 
her i’ owt else.” 

And all knew whom she meant, and joined in shouts of 

rage. 

Sometimes it was Ffrench against whom their anger 
was most violent — Ffrench, who had been born among 
them a gentleman, and who should have been gentleman 
enough not to plunder and deceive them. And again it 
was Haworth — Haworth, who had lived as hard as any of 
them and knew what their poverty was, and should have 
done fairly by them, if ever man should. 

In the course of the afternoon Murdoch, gathering no 
news of Haworth elsewhere, went to his house. A panic- 
stricken servant let him in and led him into the great 
room where he had spent his first evening, long ago. 
Despite its splendor, it looked empty and lifeless, but 
when he entered, there rose from a carved and satin up- 
holstered chair in one corner a little old figure in a black 
dress — Jem Haworth’s mother, who came to him with a 
white but calm face. 

“ Sir,” were her greeting words, “ where is he ? ” 

“ I came to see him,” he answered, “ I thought ” 

“ Ho,” she interrupted, “ he is not here. He has not 
been here since morning.” 

She began to tremble, but she shed no tears. 

“ There’s been a good many to ask for him,” she went 
on. “ Gentlemen, an’ them as was rough, an’ didn’t mind 
me bein’ a woman an’ old. They were harder than you’d 
think, an’ — troubled as I’ve been, I was glad he was not 
here to see ’em. But I’d be more comfortable if I could 
rightly understand.” 

“ 1 can only tell you what I know,” he said. “ It isn’t 
much. I have only gathered it from people on the streets.” 


“ HA WORTH'S IS DONE WITH.' 


355 


He led her back to her chair, and did not loosen his 
light grasp on her hand while he told her the story as he 
had heard it. His own mood was so subdued that it 
was easier than he had thought to use words which would 
lighten the first weight of the blow. 

She asked no questions after his explanation was over. 

“ He’s a poor man,” she said at last, — “ a poor man, but 
— we was poor before.” 

Suddenly her tears burst forth. 

“ They’ve said hard things to me to-day,” she cried. 
" I don’t believe ’em, Jem, my dear — now less than ever.” 

He comforted her as best he could. He could easily 
understand what they had told her, how much of the 
truth and how much of angry falsehood. 

“ When he comes back,” she said, “ I shall be here 
to meet him. Wherever he is, an’ however much he’s 
broke down with trouble, he knows that. He’ll come 
here to-night, an’ I shall be here.” 

Before he went away he asked if he might send Chris- 
tian or his mother to her. But though she thanked him, 
she refused. 

“ I know how good they’d be,” she said, “ an’ what a 
comfort in the lonesomeness, but when he comes he’ll 
want to be alone, an’ a unfamiliar face might trouble 
him.” 

But he did not come back. The day went on, and the 
excitement increased and waned by turns. The crowd 
grew and surged about the Bank and shouted itself 
hoarse, and would have broken a few windows if it had 
not been restrained by the police force, who appeared 
upon the field ; and there were yells for Haworth and for 
Ffrench, but by this time Mr. Ffrench had reached Rot- 
terdam and Haworth was — no one knew where, since he 


356 


“ BA WORTH'S: 


had not been seen at all. And when at length dusk fell 
upon the town, the crowd had dwindled away and gone 
home by ones and twos, and in Jem Haworth’s house sat 
his mother, watching and waiting, and straining her ears 
to catch every passing sound. 

She had kept up her courage bravely through the first 
part of the day, but the strangers who came one after the 
other, and sometimes even two or three together, to de- 
mand her son with loud words and denunciations and 
even threats, were a sore trial to her. Some of them 
flung their evil stories at her without remorse, taking it 
for granted that they were nothing new to her ears, and 
even those who had some compunction muttered among 
themselves and hinted angrily at what the others spoke 
outright. Her strength began to give way, and she 
quailed and trembled before them, but she never let their 
words pass without a desperate effort to defend her boy. 
Then they stared or laughed at her, or went away in 
sullen silence, and she was left to struggle with her grief 
and terror alone until some new call was made upon her, 
and she must bear all again. When the twilight came 
she was still alone, and sat in the darkened room battling 
against a dread which had crept slowly upon her. Of 
all those who had come none had known where he was. 
They did not know in the town, and he had not come 
back. 

“ He might go,” she whispered, “ but he’d not go with- 
out me. He’s been true and fond of his mother, let them 
say what they will. He’d never leave me here alone.” 

Her thoughts went back over the long years from his 
birth to the day of his highest success. She remembered 
how he had fought with fate, and made his way and re- 
fused to be conquered. She thought of the wealth he 


“ HA WORTH'S IS DONE WITH.” 


357 


had won, the power, the popularity, and of his boast that 
he had never been beaten, and she began to sob in the 
shadow of her corner. 

u He’s lost it all,” she cried. “ An’ he won it with his 
own hands an’ worked for it an’ bore up agen a world ! 
An’ it’s gone ! ” 

It was when she came to this point that her terror 
seized on her as it had never done before. She got up, 
shaking in every limb. 

“ I’ll go to him myself,” she said. “ Who should go to 
him but his mother ? Who should find him an’ be a help 
to him if I can’t ? Jem — Jem, my dear, it’s me that’s 
cornin’ to you — me ! ” 

He had been sitting in a small back office in the Bank 
all through the day when they had been calling and 
searching for him. He had got in early and locked the 
door and waited, knowing well enough all that was to 
come. It was no feeling of fear that made him keep hid- 
den ; he had done with fear — if, indeed, he had ever felt 
it in his life. He knew what he was going to do and he 
laid his plans coolly. He was to stay here and do the 
work that lay before him and leave things as straight as 
he could, and then at night when all was quiet he would 
make his way out in the dark and go to the Works. It 
was only a fancy, this, of going to the Works, but he clung 
to it persistently. 

He had never been clearer-headed in his life — only, 
sometimes as he was making a calculation or writing a 
letter he would dash down his work and fall to cursing. 

“There’s not another chap in England that had done 
it,” he would say. “ And it’s gone ! — it’s gone ! — it’s 
gone ! ” 


35S 


“HAWORTH'S. 


Then again he would break into a short laugh, remem- 
bering the M. P. and his speech and poor Ffrench’s 
stumbling, overwhelmed reply to it. When he heard the 
crowd shouting and hooting at the front, he went into a 
room facing the street and watched them through a chink 
in the shutter. He heard the red-faced farmer’s anathe- 
mas, and swore a little himself, knowing his story was 
true. 

“ Tha shalt have all Haworth can give, chaps,” he mut- 
tered, “ an’ welcome. He’ll tak’ nowt with him.” 

He laughed again but suddenly stopped, and walked 
back into the little office silently, and waited there. 

At nightfall he went out of a back door and slipped 
through unfrequented by-ways, feeling his heart beat with 
heavy thuds as he went. Nothing stood in his way and he 
got in, as he believed he should. The instant his foot 
crossed the threshold a change came upon him. He for- 
got all else but what lay before him. He was less calm, 
and in some little hurry. 

He reached his room and lighted the gas dimly — only 
so that he could see to move about. Then he went to his 
desk and opened it and took out one of a pair of pistols, 
speaking aloud as he did so. 

“ Here,” he said, “ is the end of Jem Haworth.” 

He knew where to aim, the heavy thuds marked the spot 
for him. 

“ I’ll count three,” he said, “ and then ” 

He began slowly, steadily, but in a voice that fell with 
a hollow sound upon the dead stillness. 

“ One,” he said. “ Two ! ” and his hand dropped at his 
side with his weapon in it, for at the door stood his mother. 
In an instant she had fallen upon her knees and dragged 
herself toward him and was clinging to his hand. 


“ HA WORTH'S IS DONE WITH. 


359 


u No — Jem ! ” she panted. “ No, not that, my dear — • 
God forbid ! ” 

He staggered back though she still clung to him. 

“ How,” he faltered, — “ how did you come here ? ” 

“ The Lord led me,” she sobbed. “ He put it into my 
heart and showed me the way, an’ you had forgot the 
door, Jem — thank God ! ” 

u You — saw — what I was going to do ? ” 

“ What you was goin’ to do, but what you’ll never do, 
Jem, an’ me to live an’ suffer when it’s done — me as 
you’ve been so good an’ such a comfort to.” 

In the dim light she knelt sobbing at his feet. 
u Let me sit down,” he said. “ And sit down nigh me. 
I’ve summat to tell you.” 

But though he sank into the chair she would not get 
up, but kept her place in spite of him and went on. 

“ To-day there have been black tales told you ? ” he 
said. 

“ Yes,” she cried, “ but ” 

“ They’re true,” he said, “ th’ worst on ’em.” 

“ No — no ! ” 

He stopped her by going on monotonously as if she 
had not spoken. 

“ Think of the worst you’ve ever known — you’ve not 
known much — and then say to yourself, ‘ He’s worse a 
hundred times’; think of the blackest you have ever 
known to be done, and then say to yourself, ‘ What he’s 
done ’s blacker yet’ If any chap has told you I’ve stood 
at naught until there was next to naught I’d left undone, 
he spoke true. If there was any one told you I set th’ de- 
cent ones by the ears and laughed ’em in the face, he 
spoke true. If any o’ ’em said I was a dread and a by- 
word, they spoke true, too. The night you came there 


360 


“HAWORTH'S. 


were men and women in th’ house that couldn’t look you 
in th’ face, and that felt shame for th’ first time in their 
lives — mayhap — because you didn’t know what they were, 
an’ took ’em to be as innocent as yourself. There’s not a 
sin I haven’t tasted, nor a wrong I’ve not done. I’ve had 
murder in my mind, an’ planned it. I’ve been mad for a 
woman not worth even what Jem Haworth had to give 
her — and I’ve won all I’d swore I’d win — an’ lost it ! 
Now tell me if there’s aught else to do but what I’ve set 
my mind on ? ” 

She clung to his heavy hand as she had not clung to it 
before, and laid her withered cheek upon it and kissed 
it. Bruised and crushed as she was with the blows he 
had dealt, she would not let it go free yet. Her words 
came from her lips a broken cry, with piteous sobs be- 
tween them. But she had her answer ready. 

“ That as I’ve thanked God for all my life,” she said, 
“ He’ll surely give me in the end. He couldn’t hold it 
back — I’ve so believed an’ been grateful to Him. If 
there hadn’t been in you what would make a good man, 
my dear, I couldn’t have been so deceived an’ so happy. 
No — not deceived — that aint the word, Jem — the good 
was there. You’ve lived two lives, may be, — but one was 
good, thank God! You’ve been a good son to me. 
You’ve never hurt me, an’ it was your love as hid from 
me the wrong you did. You did love me, Jem — I won’t 
give that up— never. There’s nothing you’ve done as 
can stand agen that, with her as is your mother. You 
loved me an’ was my own son — my boy as was a comfort 
an’ a pride to me from the first.” 

He watched her with a stunned look. 

“ You didn’t believe them” he said hoarsely, “ and you 
don’t believe me f ” 


“HAWORTH'S IS DONE WITH. 


361 


She put her hand to her heart and almost smiled. 

“It hasn’t come home to me yet,” she said. “ I don’t 
think it ever will.” 

He looked helplessly toward the pistol on the table, 
lie knew it was all over and he should not use it. 

“ What must I do ? ” he said, in the same hoarse 
voice. 

“ Get up,” she said, “ an’ come with me. I’m a old 
woman but my heart’s strong, an’ we’ve been poor before. 
We’ll go away together an’ leave it all behind — all the 
sorrow of it an’ the sin an’ the shame. The life I thought 
you lived, my dear, is to be lived yet. Theer’s places 
where they wont know us an’ where we can begin again. 
Get up and come with me.” 

He scarcely grasped what she meant. 

“ With you ! ” he repeated. “ You want me to go 
now ? ” 

“ Yes,” she answered, “ for Christ’s sake, my dear, 
now.” 

He began to see the meaning and possibility of her 
simple, woman’s plan, and got up, ready to follow her. 
And then he found that the want of food and the long 
day had worn upon him so that he was weak. She put 
her arm beneath his and tried to support him. 

“ Lean on me, my dear,” she said. “ I’m stronger than 
you think.” 

They went out, leaving the empty room and the pistol 
on the table and the dim light burning. And then they 
had locked the gate and were outside with the few stars 
shining above and the great black Works looming up be- 
fore them. 

He stopped a moment to look back and up and remem- 
bered the key. Suddenly he raised it in his hand and 
16 


362 


“HAWORTH'S.' 


flung it across the top of the locked gate ; they heard it 
fall inside upon the pavement with a clang. 

“ They’ll wonder how it came there,” he said. “ They’ll 
take down the name to-morrow. 6 Haworth’s ’ is done 
with ! ” 

He turned to her and said, “ Come.” His voice was a 
little stronger. They went down the lane together, and 
were lost in the darkness. 


CHAPTER LIII. 


“ A BIT O’ GOOD BLACK.” 

Granny Dixon was interred with pomp and ceremony, 
or, at least, with what appeared pomp and ceremony in 
the eyes of the lower social stratum of Broxton. 

Mrs. Briarley’s idea concerning the legacy left her had 
been of the vaguest. Her revered relative had shrewdly 
kept the amount of her possessions strictly to herself, if 
indeed, she knew definitely what they were. She had 
spent but little, discreetly living upon the expectations of 
her kindred. She had never been known to give anybody 
anything, and had dealt out the money to be expended 
upon her own wants with a close hand. Consequently, 
the principal, which had been a mystery from the first, 
had accumulated in an agreeably steady manner. 

Between her periodic fits of weeping in her character 
of sole legatee, Mrs. Briarley speculated with matronly 
prudence upon the possibility of the interest even amount- 
ing to “ a matter o’ ten or fifteen shillin’ a week,” and 
found the pangs of bereavement materially softened 
thereby. There was a great deal of consolation to be de- 
rived from “ ten or fifteen shillin’ a week.” 

“ PH ha’ a bit o’ good black,” she said, “ an’ we’ll gi’ 
her a noice buryin’.” Only a severe sense of duty to the 
deceased rescued her from tempering her mournfulness 
with an air of modest cheer. 


364 


HA WORTH'S.' 


The “bit o’ good black” was the first investment. 
There was a gown remarkable for such stiffness of lining 
and a tendency to crackle upon every movement of the 
wearer, and there was a shawl of great weight and size, 
and a bonnet which was a marvel of unmitigated affliction 
as expressed by floral decorations of black crape and 
beads. 

“Have thee beads i’ thy bonnet an’ a pair o’ black 
gloves, mother,” said Janey, “ an’ tha’lt be dressed up for 
onct i’ thy loife. Eh ! but I’d loike to go i’ mournin’ my- 
sen.” 

“ Aye, and so tha should, Jane Ann, if I could afford 
it,” replied Mrs. Briarley. “ Theer’s nowt loike a bit o’ 
black fur makkin foak look dressed. Theer’s summat 
cheerful about it, i’ a quoiet way. But nivver thee moind, 
tha’lt get these here things o’ moine when I’m done wi’ 
’em, an’ happen tha’lt ha’ growed up to fit th’ bonnet by 
then.” 

The occasion of the putting on of the festive garb was 
Mrs. Briarley’s visit to Manchester to examine into the 
state of her relative’s affairs, and such was the effect pro- 
duced upon the mind of Mr. Briarley by the air of high 
life surrounding him that he retired into the late Mrs. 
Dixon’s chair and wept copiously. 

“ I nivver thowt to see thee dressed up i’ so much lux- 
shury, Sararann,” he said, “an’ it sets me back. Tha 
does na look loike thysen. Tha looks as though tha 
moight be one o’ th’ nobility, goin’ to th’ Duke o’ Welling- 
ton’s funeral to ride behoind th’ hearse. I’m not worthy 
o’ thee. I’ve nivver browt thee luck. I’m a misforchnit 
cha ” 

“ If tha’d shut thy mouth an’ keep it shut till some one 
axes thee to oppen it, tha’d do well enow,” interposed 


A BIT 0 ’ GOOD BLACK: 


365 


Mrs. Briarley, with a manifest weakening toward the cul- 
prit even in the midst of her sternness. “He is na so 
bad,” she used to say, leniently, “ if he hadna been born 
a foo’.” 

But this recalled to Mr. Briarley such memories as only 
plunged him into deeper depression. 

“ Theer is na many as axes me to oppen it i’ these days, 
Sararann,” he said, with mournfulness. “It has na 
oppen’t to mich purpose for mony a day. Even th’ hos- 
pittyblest on ’em gets toired o’ a chap as sees nowt but 
misforchin. I mowt as well turn teetotal an’ git th’ credit 
on it. Happen theer ’s a bit o’ pleasure to be getten oul 
o’ staggerin’ through th’ streets wi’ a banner i’ th’ Whit 
week possession. I dunnot know. I’ve thowt mysen as 
happen th’ tea a chap has to drink when th’ excitement’s 
ower, an’ th’ speeches ud a’most be a drorback even to 
that. But I mun say I’ve thowt o’ try in’.” 

It may be here remarked that since Mrs. Briarley’s 
sudden accession to fortune, Mr. Briarley’s manner had 
been that of an humble and sincere penitent whose sym- 
pathies were slowly but surely verging toward the noble 
cause of temperance. He had repeatedly deplored his 
wanderings from the path of sobriety and rectitude with 
tearful though subdued eloquence, and frequently inti- 
mated a mournful inclination to “ jine th’ teetotals.” 
Though, strange to say, the effect of these sincere mani- 
festations had not been such as to restore in the partner 
of his joys and sorrows that unlimited confidence which 
would allow of her confiding to his care the small amount 
he had once or twice feebly suggested her favoring him 
with, “ to settle wi’ ” a violent and not-to-be-pacified cred- 
itor of whom he stated he stood in bodily fear. 


366 


HAWORTH'S: 


u I dunnot know as I ivver seed a chap as were as des- 
p’rit ower a little,” he remarked. “ It is na but eighteen 
pence, an’ he ses he’ll ha’ it, or — or see about it. He 
stands at th’ street corner — near th’ ‘ Who’d ha’ Thowt it,’ 
— an’ he will na listen to owt. He says a chap as has coom 
i’ to property can pay eighteen pence. He wunnot believe 
me,” he added weakly, “ when 1 say as it is na me as has 
getten th’ brass, but yo’. It mak’s him worse to try to 
mak’ him understand. He will na believe me, an’ he’s a 
chap as would na stand back at owt. Theer wur a man 
i’ Marfort as owed him thrippence as he — he mashed i’to 
a jelly, Sararann — an’ it wur fur thrippence.” 

“ Aye,” said Mrs. Briarley, dryly, “ an’ theer’s no 
knowin’ what he’d do fur eighteen pence. Theer’s a bad 
lookout fur thee , sure enow ! ” 

Mr. Briarley paused and surveyed her for a few seconds 
in painful silence. Then he looked at the floor, as if ap- 
pealing to it for assistance, but even here he met with in- 
difference, and his wounded spirit sought relief in meek 
protestations. 

“ Tha has na no confydence in me, Sararann,” he said. 
“ Happen th’ teetotals would na lia’ neyther, happen they 
wouldn’t, an’ wheer’s th’ use o’ a chap thinkin’ o’ jinin’ 
’em when they mowt ha’ no confydence i’ him. When a 
mon’s fam’ly mistrusts him, an’ has na no belief in what 
he says, he canna help feelin’ as he is na incouraged. Tha 
is na incouragin’, Sararann — theer’s wheer it is.” 

But when, after her visit to Manchester, Mrs. Briarley 
returned, even Mr. Briarley’s spirits rose, though under 
stress of circumstances and in private. On entering the 
house Mrs. Briarley sank into a chair, breathless and 
overawed. 


“A BIT O' GOOD BLACK. 


367 


u It’s two pound ten a week, Janey ! ” she announced 
in a hysterical voice. “ An’ tha can ha’ thy black as soon 
as tha wants it.” And Mrs. Briarley burst at once into 
luxurious weeping. 

Janey dropped on to a stool, rolled her arms under her 
apron and sat gasping. 

“ Two pound ten a week ! ” she exclaimed. “ I dunnot 
believe it ! ” 

But she was persuaded to believe by means of sound 
proof and solid argument, and even the proprieties were 
scarcely sufficient to tone down the prevailing emo- 
tion. 

“ Theer’s a good deal to be getten wi’ two pound ten a 
week,” soliloquized Mr. Briarley in his corner. “I’ve 
heerd o’ heads o’ fam’lies as wur ’lowanced. Summat 
could be done wi’ three shillin’ a week. Wi’ four shillin’ 
a chap could be i’ parydise.” 

But this, be it observed, was merely soliloquy, timor- 
ously ventured upon in the temporary security afforded 
by the prevailing excitement. 

At the funeral the whole family appeared clothed in 
new garments of the most somber description. There 
were three black coaches and Mrs. Briarley was supported 
by numerous friends who alternately cheered and con- 
doled with her. 

“ Tha mun remember,” they said, “ as she’s better off, 
poor thing.” 

Mr. Briarley, who had been adorned with a hat-band of 
appalling width and length, and had been furthermore 
inserted into a pair of gloves some inches too long in the 
fingers, overcame his emotion at this juncture sufficiently 
to make an endeavor to ingratiate himself. He withdrew 


368 


“ HA WORTH'S: 


liis handkerchief from his face and addressed Mrs. Briar- 
ley. 

“ Aye,” he said, “ tha mun bear up, Sararann. She is 
better off — happen — an’ so are we.” 

And he glanced round with a faint smile which, how- 
ever, faded out with singular rapidity, and left him look- 
ing somewhat aghast. 


CHAPTER LIY. 


“it will be to you.” 

They found the key lying within the locked gate, and 
the dim light burning and the pistol loaded upon the 
table. The great house stood empty with all its grandeur 
intact. The servants had been paid their wages a few 
days before the crash and had gone away. Nothing had 
been moved, nothing taken. The creditors, who found to 
their amazement that all was left in their hands to dispose 
of as they chose, agreed that this was not an orthodox 
case of absconding. Haworth was a more eccentric fel- 
low than they had thought. 

One man alone understood. This was Murdoch, who, 
amid all the buzz of excited amazement, said nothing 
even to those in his own house. When he heard the 
story of the pistol and the key, his first thought was 
of the silence of the great place at night — the deadness 
of it and the sense of desolation it brought. It was a 
terrible thing to remember this and then picture a ruined 
man standing alone in the midst of it, a pistol in his 
hand and only the low light burning. “We did not 
understand each other very well,” he said, drearily, “ but 
we were friends in our way.” And the man’s farewell 
as he stood at the carriage door in the shadow, came back 
to him again and again like an echo repeating itself : “ If 
16 * 


370 


“ HAWORTH'S. 


there’s aught in what’s gone by that’s for me — remember 
it!” 

Even before his return home, Murdoch had made up 
his mind as to what his course for the next few years was 
to be. His future was assured and he might follow his 
idlest fancy. But his fancies were not idle. They 
reached forward to freedom and new labors when the 
time came. He wanted to be alone for a while, at least, 
and he was to return to America. His plan was to travel 
with a purpose in view, and to fill his life with work 
which would leave him little leisure. 

Rachel Ffrench had not yet left her father’s house. 
Saint Meran had gone away with some suddenness imme- 
diately after the dinner party at which the political econo- 
mist had reigned. Various comments had been made on 
his departure, but it was not easy to arrive at anything 
like a definite conclusion. Miss Ffrench was seen no 
more in the town. Only a few servants remained with 
her in the house, and these maintained that she was going 
to Paris to her father’s sister, with whom she had lived 
before her return from abroad. They added that there 
was no change in her demeanor, that she had dismissed 
their companions without any explanation. One, it is 
true, thought she was rather thin — and had “ gone off her 
looks,” but this version was not popular and was consid- 
ered out of accordance with the ideal of her character 
held in the public mind. 

“ She does na care,” it was said. “ She is na hurt. Her 
brass is safe enow, an’ that’s aw as ud be loike to trouble 
her. Palei’deed! She’s too high an’ moighty.” 

Murdoch made his preparations for departure as rapidly 
as possible. They were rather for his mother and Chris- 
tian than for himself. They were to leave Broxton also 


11 IT WILL BE TO YOU. 


371 


and he had found a home for them elsewhere. One day, 
as they sat in the little parlor, he rose hurriedly and went 
to Christian and took both her hands. 

“ Try to be happy,” he said. “ Try to be happy.” 

He spared no effort to make the future bright for them. 
He gave no thought to himself, his every hour was spent 
in thinking for and devising new comfort for them. 

But at last all was ready, and there was but one day left 
to them. 

The Works were still closed, and would not be re- 
opened for some weeks, but he had obtained permission 
to go down to his room, and remove his possessions if he 
chose. So on the morning of this last day he let himself 
into his “ den,” and shut himself up in it. Once behind the 
closed doors, he began a strange labor. He emptied draw- 
ers and desk, and burnt every scrap of paper to ashes — 
drawings, letters, all ! Then he destroyed the delicate mod- 
els and every other remnant of his past labors. There was 
not so much as an envelope or blotting-pad remaining. 
When he had done he had made a clean sweep. The room 
was empty, cold, and bare. He sat down, at last, in the 
midst of its desolate orderliness. 

At that moment a hand was laid upon the door-handle 
and the door opened; there was a rustle of a woman’s 
dress — and Rachel Ffrench stood before him. 

“ What are you doing here, in Heaven’s name ? ” he said, 
rising slowly to meet her. 

She cast one glance around the bare room. 

“ It is true ! You are going away ! ” 

u Yes,” he answered, 66 I am going. I have done my 
last work here to-day.” 

She made a step forward and stood looking at him. 
She spoke under her breath. 


372 


“ HA WORTH'S: 


“ Every one is going. My father has left me — I ” 

A scarlet spot came out on her cheek, but she did not 
withdraw her eyes. 

“ Saint Meran has gone also.” 

Gradually, as she looked at him, the blood receded from 
her face and left it like a mask of stone. 

“ I ” — she began, in a sharp whisper, “ do you not see ? 
Do you not understand ! Ah — my God ! ” 

There was a chair near her and she fell into it, burying 
her face in the crushed velvet of her mantle as she bowed 
herself upon the table near. 

“Hush!” she cried, “do not speak to me! That it 
should be I who stooped, and for this — for this ! That 
having battled against my folly so long, I should have let 
it drag me to the dust at last ! ” 

Her passionate sobs suffocated her. She could not check 
or control them. Her slender fingers writhed in their 
clasp upon each other. 

“ I never thought of this , God knows ! ” he said, 
hoarsely, “though there have been hours when I could 
have sworn that you had loved me once. I have thought 
of all things, but never of this — never that you could re- 
pent.” 

She lifted her head. 

“ That I should repent ! ” she cried. “ Repent ! Like 
this ! ” 

“ Ho,” he returned, “ I never thought of that, I swear! ” 

“And it is you,” she cried, with scorn , — “ you who 
stand there and look at me and tell me that it is all 
over ! ” 

“Is it my fault that it is all over?” he demanded. 
“ Is it ? ” 

“ Ho,” she answered, “ that is my consolation.” 


“IT WILL BE TO YOU” 


373 


He drew nearer to her. 

“You left me nothing,” he said, — “nothing. God 
knows what saved me — I do not. You loved me ? You 
battled against your love ? ” He laughed aloud. “ I was 
a madman under your window night after night. Forget 
it, if you can. I cannot. ‘Oh! that I should have 
stooped for this,’ you say. No, it is that I who have loved 
you should stand here with empty hands ! ” 

She had bowed her face and was sobbing again. But 
suddenly she rose. 

“ If I did not know you better,” she said, “ I should say 
this was revenge.” 

“ It would be but a poor one,” he answer d her coldly. 

She supported herself with one hand on the chair. 

“ I have fallen very low,” she said, “ so low that I was 
weaker than 1 thought. And now, as you say, ‘it is 
over.’ Your hands are empty! Oh! it was a poor pas- 
sion, and this is the fitting end for it ! ” 

She moved a little toward the door and stopped. 

“ Good-bye,” she said. 

In a moment more all that was left was a subtle breath 
of flower-like fragrance in the atmosphere of the bare 
zoom. 


It was an hour before he passed through the iron gates, 
though there had been nothing left to be done inside. 

He came out slowly, and having locked the gate, turned 
toward the Broxton road. 

He was going to the little graveyard. It had been a 
dull gray day, but by the time he reached the place, the 
sun had crept through the clouds and brightened them, 
and noting it he felt some vague comfort. It was a deso- 
late place when there was no sun. 


374 


HA WORTH'S.' 


When he reached the mound he stood looking down. 
Since the night he had lain by it looking up at the sky 
and had made his resolve, the grass had grown longer and 
thicker and turned from green to brown. 

He spoke aloud, just as he had done before. 

“It is done,” he said. “Your thought was what you 
dreamed it would be. I have kept my word.” 

He stopped as if for an answer. But it was very still — 
so still that the silence was like a Presence. And the 
mound at his feet lay golden brown in the sunlight, even 
its long grass unstirred. 

They left Broxton the next day and in a week he set 
sail. As the ship moved away he stood leaning upon the 
taffrail watching a figure on the shore. It was a girl in a 
long cloak of gray almost the color of the mist in which 
she stood — a slender motionless figure — the dark young 
face turned seaward. 

He watched her until he could see her face no longer, 
but still she had not stirred. 

“ When I return,” he said, scarcely conscious that he 
spoke, “ when I return — it will be to you.” 

Then the grayness closed about her and she faded 
slowly from his sight. 











* 






*• 















i. 






























'C9PY DEL, TOCAT. WV!l 

AUG 9 1907 

AU * H iso, ' 


Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing Agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: 



JUL 1996 

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PRESERVATION TECHNOLOGIES, 


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